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i’ll drown my days in sunlit skin and milky baths, scribbling endlessly on an empty paper, planning my future in big dreams with little things mixed in between, pretending i don’t want to be a writer.

pretending my skin doesn’t yearn to be torn in the edges of rough paper, and my mind can settle into a content life of pasty white smiles and bridesmaids and halloween parties spent pretending i fit in.
pretending my blood doesn’t boil when a word is used incorrectly, my hands twitching...