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i love to write and i've been feeling especially down lately so i spend a lot of time with my face buried in my moleskine, pen in hand, scribbling. i'm inspired by writers like richard brautigan, and charles bukowski, but i don't think that really reflects in what i write.


the tops of my knees through to my feet

are covered in small clusters of bruises:

fingerprints of ghost hands on the milk skin of my legs

because there is no one holding my hand

and helping me jump obstacles; no voice warning me of dangers ahead.

no one (gently) kisses my wounds with a promise

that everything will, in fact, be okay.

it's important for me to take these hits and find it out, alone.

it's ugly, and it's painful, but where it hurts will eventually heal.

in it's place i'll have grown a thicker skin.


you can tell i really, really miss someone right now.

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