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When you get home to the promise land send me a postcard from the graveyard where you buried that friendship bracelet of ours back when we were in grade school. Back when we were so happy that you didn't think you had to write journals to keep your head from eating your heart.
I’m tired of waking up against the wall feeling like another piece of your gallery. My bruised canvas isn’t fading and these nails holding me down are stuck in paint. I keep hoping this exhibition ends and I go with it. I want someone to pick me up and paint their self portrait on my landscape. To wash their paintbrushes between every stroke and thin out my fields. Build a city atop my skin with more than a bent wrist. Make me the mural above your bed and the thoughts in your heart. Recreate me in your image and pretend it was my idea. Love me like the Shelves fell off in Your room but you still Want to find a place for me