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Rough Edges

I think I like my brain best in a bar fight with my heart. I think I like myself a little broken, with rough edges, a little harder to grasp. I like poetry better than therapy anyway. The poems never judge me for healing wrong.—Clementine von Radics, 'Mouthful of Forevers'

I love you, don’t you mind, don’t you mind…

My soulmate is

Lost in the rough edges of

Parchment.

Caught in the crossfires

Of army guns, gas masks,

Broken bones, and burned

Love notes.

I don’t believe in love like the

Back of my hand that

Is covered in sharpie

I love the panifulistic love

I have for others,

When I write poetry

With the form of

Written diets and

Diet pills.

They sit on my

Dresser telling me

“They love me, they

Cherish my body.”

An eating disorder

Made out

Of swedish fish

And seaweed

Desires.

I pop them down

My throat like

Clown that blows

Up balloon animals

In the form of

The rainbow.

I cook them

With ever sweet

I taste on my native

Tongue that twists

And slips on payapa

On my foreign

Lips.

I carry diets on

Me like extra

Weight, extra

Pounds that

Carry on my

Heart like

Sweet strawberry

Tarts.

Kiss me with

Kisses of Hershey

Chocolates and

Roasted marshmallows.

I dig deep into

My throat, naked

And ruined.

I am my own cemetery

As my diet pills

Sit on my dresser

Singing to me,

“We love you, take

Another. Well make

You feel better.”

So I pop another

In the magic mirror

Of my own horrors.

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Rough Edges
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