my prose will make little sense to you (outofcontext)

For —-

 

no matter how many boxes of cheap 

bleached hair dye you steal from CVS

(just because you weren’t sure of the color)

and no matter how many exotic boys you kiss

on your seventeenth birthday at the Prom

(and then complain it sucked ballsacks)

I will still always picture you

as the girl with the round glasses

and hair in too many braids

(who was always there on Sunday morning.)

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