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Whenever my baby starts talking too sweet, I know that her plans go well beyond me – somebody’s holding, or something’s worth going to – she’s only folding me down so I won’t wonder what she was doing when I was asleep. I sleep too much – this chasm’s so deep that I’m certain that one day I will not climb out – more certain it’ll take weeks to find out and that nobody will be completely surprised. Whenever my baby starts being too nice, I listen much harder for little white lies, mesmerized by the patterns of tiles and thinking my options are get busy dying or get on my horse and ride towards the sun. My baby’s so certain that I’m not the one that she starts to feel guilty and then tries to fill me with happiness so I won’t question her ways – miles and purses and places to stay with people that drown my distant words out. I smoked too much last night; I’m too hoarse to shout. My baby’s best smile comes from some denial – I’ll ask her a something and be happy while she prepares a new story – eyebrows contorted, lips tight together, cute cheeks distorted by stress and guilt and holding things in – my baby won’t lay with me ever again.

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~ by perfectionatrix on September 18, 2011.

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