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a behavior usually reserved for February
when every morning i crawl out of bed;
Sloppy.
cringing the second my feet hit the hardwood,
thinking of slivers and how the moon is still
visible
and everything is a crescendo writhing in my
esophagus
but it's September,
with my birthday in twenty-three days
and i've been so Quiet lately
just a furrowed, chipped away reference
sifting
alluding to everything refused from this world.