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Guilt is like a stain on a sweater
The light blurs out any sensation you sense Your clothes are stained, but you wait in suspense The picture frame is tilted agains the wall It never bothered me, for imperfetion is beauty after all
I remember one morning I sat on the porch and played with my dolls Gritty sand of the ground In my teeth Under my nails   I remember looking up There was a man walking down the road
Empty hands Empty phase Lonely place. Shuddering loose. Ends ravel back, twisting trunks Forty stains, Grape seeds. Whispered gold, precious wrought. Luscious lied.
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