As I drift to sleep, I wonder who the real me is and who’s the imposter.
little / octave, I wear silk too
It is hard to not hate
myself, the self who’d rather/ turn inward as dusk spirals
into its Tang dissolve. And isn’t ruin, too,/ a thing to celebrate?
She doesn’t know why I left the other one who sees the dead was too young to be sent off to boarding school stayed home to witness
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