the voice is a girl
is imature
she misspells words
the light is an
old subject
she sees from the same old window
if she could change her eyes she would
although the colors are spectacular
--not unlike a wolf
her yeys are the devil's when she writes
she channels god
who has stopped searching
an island occupies her thoughts
a plexiglass cube
and all the confusion that comes with being stuck inside
but baths are nice
though one is technically inside
no one joins her there
her art is not heart
but filled
it does not pump blood incessantly
it does nothing without thinking
yet there is something hidden amongst the dried water
a separation of world from conquest.
she does not own anything
her ideas are fruits without
bees
melodrama sings to her
she wants the drama without its prefix
boring dribble, her favorite world
when her stomach gets fat she can barely tolerate her own skin
her father is uncomfortable
he has not yet learned to swallow
notthatshehasntthoughtaboutthemeaningofthingswords
wordsarevapor
formingclouds
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