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Posted: July 7, 2015 in art, poetry, writing
Tags: , , , , ,

You find me when I am weakest;
Synced synapses screaming for a cease-fire.
Always “Hey”, always like it’s nothing.
Always when you instinctively know I could use a stiff drink and a night in heels,
Followed by my heels dug into the mattress,
Or my hands on a headboard,
(although, who the hell uses a headboard while giving or getting head?)
You know I am dead-bored
With all these sophomoric,  2-dimensional lives lacking spinal cords.
Even continents away, your manic states indicate when I feel desolate.

And no one calls me “doll” anymore,
Certainly not in the same breath as calling me a “broad”.

As bad as it ever was, it was also that good.

At one time.

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