it feels as if it's been ages since i last visited and ages since i've known what to do with my words. the papers pile up and the emotions go unprocessed and the drip finally stops. i'd like to live a new kind of poetry but i find myself fixated on the past and the things i know i will never understand, the closure i will never receive. wounds do heal in due time, but they leave jagged scars on freckled skin in ways that tell you you have lived, but in doing so grown uglier.
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