you’re not a poem and that’s why i love you i used to write about the moon hanging shadows on and around my neck the cacti shriveling blisters in death valley imaginary summer superstorms and neurotransmitters pulses and a lack thereof i thought about punctuation and the ghosts i’d talk to in circles sepia-stained i painted over them in ugly neons and called it art (as if my wrists were art once u
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