Sunday, December 26


I love and I hate. I desire one thing only. My eyes are hard. J’s eyes break into a thousand lights. R’s are like those pale flowers to which moths come in the evening. Yours grow full and brim and never break. But I am already set on my pursuit. I see insects in the grass. Though my mother still knits white socks for me and hems pinafores and I am a child, I love and I hate.

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