busted junk
you road.
you path.
you future.
you island of womanhood.
taking bright
balls
of light and death
each month:
bleeding
wishes and future
into one..
i am not you.
i am not empty yet,
but empty still.
i have nothing
but broken;
trapped,
working,
staggering,
torn tearing
empathy
of youth.
wishes
unfulfilled.
and i am ok with that.
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