to hate a word is nonsense but to regret it is conscious, and i regret buxom.

but you were. beautiful, too.

later you would scream in your boyfriend’s face, telling him he was nothing, a fucking waste, and that he was the most amazing person you had ever met, but a fucking failure because of your own expectations, you who are happy to sit and smile and watch the planets, a fucking failure.

torn between two, you relayed the details of a friend’s wedding, a confusion of priorities, one half of the service riddled with conflict–pagan misnomer. you are perfect in many ways, contradiction though that is. without denomination, dominated by love and empathy you survive through the warmth of strangers.


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