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Looking down on the void She finds the immeasurable quite fitting And though she stands secure and strong There is still a wild part of her That wants to dip her toe into the nothing And remember what it was to be lost

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Hello, my beautiful Springlings! If my Facebook newsfeed is any indication, and I choose to believe it is, then half of you are still buried in snow. But here in good ol’ Tejas, the sun is right at the precipice between “Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun” and Dante’s Inferno. Yes, my friends, that was a Raffi reference and an early Italian renaissance literary reference. I know it’s Monday, but keep up. My dear friend, Beks (love you, boo), asked… Read more »

Does my name taste good, The way it slithers Through your fangs? Do I nourish you, As you lick your lips With your forked tongue? Do you feel satiated, As you crack my ribs And drink my blood and marrow? Does your hunger ache, As you reach and strain And realize you will never hold me, For snakes have no hands.

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There’s a pause And the smell of fresh paint Makes you wrinkle your nose It’s so telling, so tacky It proves you weren’t always like this Your past is yours And you will always hold it But you prefer to keep it to yourself And if that smell would just go away You could loosen your grip And maybe flash that sweet tea grin And be yourself once again