10:52
i have eight minutes to harvest a poem from my desert mind.
less if my dad wakes up, tells me sleep is more important than whatever it is i'm doing, even if these little letters could save me; he wouldn't know.
seven minutes to create something beautiful. to inject into your body a heaviness most familiar to poets, to artists. to slowly glaze over your eyes with questions, messy questions, questions that some may say don't belong to little girls like yourself.
the hypothetical chime of a bell.
no beautiful poem, just the desperate beginnings of one.
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