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in october of 2019 i called a suicide hotline for the first time in my life
Your Arms Are My Cocoon
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Cut through this clockwise fog
Im finding new substance in detail and waking up
Embodied in reflective puddles and impulsive acts of clarity
Why go home?
Let go
Dissolve into blossom
I am the
Beauty in the trees
Kind blanket skies
Tear through my
Willing flesh and bone to dust
In the wind
In your skin
Cloudless in melon-tinged sunsets
And locked at the wrists
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