i pressed the flowers you gave me / can’t bare the thought of time passing, turning me wrinkled and finite / cause what is life if not grainy photos burned into the back of my skull / moments of time, forever captured in my lungs / reenacting the same successes / ‘til their triumph feels phony and cliché / til my daydreams are dead butterflies, crushed between the pages / ‘til numbers and phases are etched into my skin / i pressed the flowers you gave me, couldn’t stand to watch one more beautiful thing / waste away and die / it’s pathetic, but this still counts as an improvement from my usual / state of affairs / clinging to the hands of anyone who’ll take me / who will say they love me ‘til the words lose their meaning / slippery and ugly on their cherry-blossom tongue / and we will talk about it / until we don’t talk about it at all / i’m so close and so far away / making small talk with my childhood home / ‘cause i kept every single letter you wrote me / i stuffed old keepsakes in my desk until it overflowed /  i dated each journal entry / and i froze myself in place, a fossil of the girl i used to be

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