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as if you are not the very definition of success

here i am in my thirtieth year

sporting horse oil

and salt-crusted eyes

still choosing the wrong men

eating myself sick

hunting for purpose like a poacher

longing to unzip my own skin

there are things boiling inside me

even as life’s hairpin turns

roil my stomach with nausea

on my way to meet my future self

i burn through pride like ether

blooming underground like an orchid


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