You were twenty years old and fresh to the world and now you’re little more than an abomination and a celebrated one at that and the boy that you’ve tied yourself to is naught but an anchor that doesn’t mind if you sleep with him every once in a while as long as you think that what you do is called love but it isn’t and it never has been and I’m glad that you’re happy but you’re wrong

poetry

And I say to you,
with the cloths tied in your unkempt hair
and your smug smile and your foul lips
and the swagger you seem to reserve for
every waking momen
and the lack of cash to fund you
and the lack of food to feed you
and the fact that these two truths stem
from a lacking in other parts,
I say,
What gives you the right?

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