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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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