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He writes about me

because he knows I like it

or to get out of his own mind

though I can’t imagine mine is a relief


I’m redundant

I fret and marinate and I make

things dismal

things the heart-weary understand

but tire of

I tire of me



My writing is compulsive

not compelling but compelled by


I know it’s right

a version of what’s right


SOB with me

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