Tuesday, August 10, 2010

i don't feel elevated. or dug under. or in between.

that is the summer we started doing things. the summer of bulimia and drugs (lots of drugs), of bubbles waiting to be blown, the summer we itched our skins for too long, of classical music. of noticing things. things like lone cups sitting by window sills and white shoes. how our vaginas smelled different because we were wearing each others' clothes all the time. It was the summer when the river was orange in color and loud in thought. it was the summer of taking in, then pushing out. of wanting to be honest, but getting caught up in sacrifices so much that we finally sewed our mouths shut.

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