Everything means something, and something means nothing.
The wealthiest shmuck draped in capitalism resides on the
same block as a penniless hobo donned in poverty.
And me, a lower class suburban white girl wards off the
surge of Harlem’s chivalrousness to make up love stories out of glances from the
cocky Soho elite.
Every day my heart breaks and rebuilds itself.
Everything I truly love is rooted in a hate for ever making
me endure the kind of illness love is.
My marriage to the cancer of giving too much to save that
love:
To obey that love, each day new guidelines to cement my
insanity to my personality,
To follow the ambiguity of love’s expectations.
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