| I'm moving. I think it's time for something new, don't you? |
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| There is a sort of verbal purging associated with a writer. I can taste the bile in the back of my throat. |
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| ...and she speaks sunshine.
I hate beauty. The way it crawls underneath my skin, poisoning my perception of self until I wither into a heap on the floor, unable to face the mirror. My grotesque bone structure, the one thing I cannot alter with kohl or talc or rouge, trembles under my fingers as they wildly grasp at the face they cannot change. I am not Play-dough. I cannot change my face. This is the most disheartening realization I have come upon pertaining to myself. I can control my food, I can pluck, suck, and squeeze. I can drape, wrap, and don. But I cannot change my face. I will forever be lukewarm water the viewer spits out.
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| I'm in a class about nutrition.
And I've stopped eating.
Look how little I be. |
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| the one with glasses lost me spreading my marmalade on the wicker chair with buttered sincerity that cracked my skin leaving me bloated with insincerity. now the wedge expands.
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