Unpublished

You and me like
Broken heroine needles and poetry

Mother likes it. Published. Sold to the one generous man living on the corner. He knows better than anyone what it’s like to be alone. Unnappreciated. He buys the poetry no one else does
because he knows,
Trying to make some money and the writing may never cut it. It’s time for prostitution, for masturbation, for anything I can do for the few extra dollars on the street side. All I do is walk, write, and read and I love it. I’d walk more if I wasn’t stuck in this form. My feet blister after only several hours of walks a day. It’s alright, but I wish they would turn to calluses. I have a whole world to explore and I don’t have time to wait for my feet (tootsies) to catch up. So fucking tired.

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