i heard somewhere once that if you read a word enough times

it doesn’t seem like it is real anymore

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i want to be backyard bonfire, friday night football,

lit up small town, prom dress pretty

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i want to be afternoon strolls in the park,

wildflowers in teacup vases pretty

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i want to be rose quartz, smoky eye, red lip

1950s hollywood, broadway show queen pretty

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i want to be white gowns but not the kind from hospitals

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i want to have butterflies in my stomach but not the kind that make me puke

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i want to be west virginia mountains but not the kind my best friend’s first love wanted to jump off of

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i want to be pastel paintings i, want to be poetry

i want to be remembered as more than the girl who dreams in holographic white noise

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i am tired of being glistening tears like the christmas lights hanging in my room

half burned out half glowing

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i want to be full

i want to be well

i want to be the opposite of everything i have ever been

 

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one day i will love everything about myself

and not hate that i can’t stop creating

when i feel like destruction.