Scrape your face on the asphault,
and call yourself a bitch.
So melodramatic.
In your static cling dress, wrinkled
and stuck to your thighs
like black velcro.
Runny mascara and a face
that hates. Yourself.
And so you beg for claims of insanity;
so you'll get letters
and doctors will analyze you
with squinted eyes over their glasses.
And, your chaos makes you happy.
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