novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- the underneath of my arms are sore there are words but not the right words there are things to tell but no words to tell them with because i used them up already, holding the hands of two thin teenaged autistic boys, flanking me as we walked, driving to the bank, using a stairmaster and listening to the same songs over and over. my arms are sore and every thought is either a run-on sentence or half-formed, like some base poetry. i will tell you that i don't hate summertimes anymore, regardless of sweater-disposal and scarf-unnessecary. i wear flip flops and wet hair to taquerias and repeat myself and cry on telephones. 7:57 pm - 06.14.02 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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