REPETITION

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You are the epitome of “back on my bullshit”
only falling into fads of the moment when you
cross my mind, regurgitating bad habits
with every phone call – I can’t even look
at your picture without frustration of
anticipation of what dumb shit I’ll do next
when it comes to you               how dare you

There is nothing about me that is interested in
anything about you or whatever boring diversions
you’re contributing to at the moment,
I don’t want to know or be involved in your scandals
but I need you to intrigue me and I need your attention
otherwise I will literally die
but figuratively I don’t care

Biting my nails like choke cherry pie – black light boredom
whipped liberally by your stoic entrancement, greasy
knuckles, heirloom nostalgia that tastes disruptive,

I’m the only one who could go without
another album – and I keep singing how the
repetition kills you repetition kills you repetition kills you
R E P E T I T I O N K I L L S Y O U
being loved by you feels like a diagnosis mutating around a
Lana del Rey anthem in a house at the end of a
Cul de sac in fucking Tempe, Arizona and now I’m
a thirteen-year-old girl jumping on her bed
who believes that real love is every second, a vehemence,
the way I remember your bloody lip on my shoulder,

and I retape the ripped posters that I hide inside my diary.

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