this is a box    chock-full      with  salt on wounds and
bitterly    wrapped when you       apologized within
door frames but       unaccepted             the weird kid
comfort me          in solidarity and social anxiety  but
i still hold my breath with every blue eyes and dirty blonde
and i know now i’ll always sleep with the lights on   (alone)
only sit on the end seats against the wall on the trains
now.    and           hate the fucking beatles        when they’re
playing  on  the  speakers   in his   parents’ gazebo and
employ avoidance tactics.           this is post-traumatic
but half-assed diagnosis too recent too recent too recent
i compare symptoms like game cards trading in clubs
like after school   you   dont  deserve   love
and i deserve to be on substances without hating myself
and i deserve to trust women again .           thanks
don’t want to frequent that house on
old cleveland road, camp hill           anymore



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