that make a life
my hand-made love
I can’t carry
the one you across
without the other me
coming along
at seven I was a real saint
which was fine for a year
but as a career
it left something
to be desired
and a long hangover
pretending is what
we’re still sending
so terrified to be you
I must continually
construe and cling
to this me
o practice me
god of
imperfection
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