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Who are you if not what happens

when we’re always running?

My things fall off of me like

an onion. I’m like sunscreen

banging between two doors.

Dear you, what’s happening

when will you write my story?

I put purple to sleep with my pacific blue sweater. 

My head pops orange on its face,

but who are you to fate?

Where is my toaster?

My butter. Her body,

burning, muffin.