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She Weighs Me Down
I’m a gaping hole,
a flipped bucket
waiting to be filled,
only to be robbed of
sustenance once again.
In the pursuit of something
I already hold - it’s not ambition
when you’re chasing your own tail
hands-first.
Fruitless: body, ideas, fingertips - all
without the flowery scent of adolescence,
instead rank with regurgitated
self-confidence and leftover shame.
Bloated sadness with no escape
from its breeding ground, not even
the darkness can absorb the pain.
So it sits on me, making me seem heavier
than I appear.
She weighs me down.
She weighs me down.
Oh, but I drag on.
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