she was my poet
and she was the golden ticket
who didn't fly with me
she didn't make it home in time
she ran inside
of the pain in doubts forced upon hands
hands made of gardens
and wrote to me of hatred
backwards in times twisting cowardice
her nickname was cc
and we fell in love
the purge of our homelessness begins again
she had a son in the beginning of time
and Valentino's fragrance sang to me
stilled in the files of hell
when i emerged they told me
she overdosed
sincerely, lost irish
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