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[personal profile] rhyll
reading other people's words. so many of my own, stories and poems that float around unanchored.

i don't want to transcend my body.
but i need new words to trace across my skin.

between a deep breath in and a deep breath out there's a slight mismatch, something swapped for something else. (at the moment of death does out soul escape? an aging body on enormous scales, do they swing?)

i will never be a beautiful writer. but i still want to be a writer, even if it's only of fragments that i keep hidden.

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rhyll

July 2012

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