Fucking poetry major. Fucking creative writing. Fucking having to write a poem for tomorrow about which I thoroughly wracked my brain, pulled quotes from Anne Carson, started writing & fucking *bam*, here comes this poem out of the clear shamayim cacholim, to fuck with me. It's really true that poems have directions of their own, that
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I know it hurts, but look what good comes from it.
I love you.
You're doing the right thing.
Large. Pink. Vagina-looking. Flower.
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What the fuck am I doing with my life, Sarah.
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