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Mitt hus   Det huset, biblioteket på Skogås, Och dessa vägar med musikaliska namn, Runt andas jag av fur och gran. Här, på fuktigt lövverket umgås Och leker, springer, babblar barn.  
To My Mother Momma he beats me. What do you want for dinner? Leftovers sound fine.   To My Lover Abroad Tell me you love me. Remember the ferry ride?
It started as all do, in January But I was not in the same place The year started abroad, where I learned to be on my own With a new language, new friends, new everything It was difficult, but just enough
When I was younger, I used to think guys Needed to make me smile I thought boys completed empty parts Parts that first became bruised
This city continues to be a whirlwind of vibrancy. My thoughts are drenched with its very exsistence. So, rightfully, my deptarture shall be grand. May I stretch my legs and dance along the chiseled rooftops.
Lush green patches stroll by as we continue down the deserted road in the monster. The colors stand out like a pink feather against a wall of white. I am that pink feather.
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