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i've got late nights spent crying over forgotten memories, conversations that never occured, coffee as my only form of nutrition, moments lost in the beautiful skies overhead, and those days when i couldn't speak to anyone else but my own reflection, and then only to swear at her countless inferiorities.

i keep my bad poetry locked in a drawer, careful to hide it when visitors come over, afraid they might laugh at my pitiful attempts to perfectly articulate my pain. what seems more tangible than all the words i wrote and said, though, are those which never saw the light of day.

i've got past indecision and the countless possibilities contained therein to provide fodder for a thousand sleepless nights.

there's pictures of certain people, kept for memories i hoped would develop, but now treasured for suprising moments that are all the more valuable for their originality.

and the clothes i wore in hopes of impressing or enticing a special someone are given to the salvation army, waiting to be found by some thirfty, trendy shopper and then to be worn by them and seen by me maybe someday in the future. i'll smile, thinking back on all those awkward days when i struggled to find myself by defining myself through others.

but this is all mine--though stained and bruised it may be. i have it to remind me that i was never without doubt and never will be. i can embrace my sorrowful imperfections and subsequent manifestations while still being separate yet influenced by its history.

this is what i have to show for my awkward days--myself, present and to come.


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