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Work in Progress
The soles of my shoes
are scratched with glass and I have
circles under my eyes so dark they
couldn't be hidden with my mothers
expensive concealer. I hardly know
what a sunrise is but I'm well
acquainted with the moon and its
wavering light. I have seen the stars
in my private field and wished upon
meteors. I may not know the smell of
freshly cut grass but I've seen the dew drops
form on blades of living grass. They call
me the night owl, and I call them
deprived.
