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  • Writer's pictureBethany Stimac

my fated regress

again i get to sit, unkept

again i’m frittered, frayed

i would leave the floor,

quit being a rug,

and simply stride away

but i’m weaved of wires,

flayed in flesh,

unable to unearth this

heart i suppress–

and don’t have time

for my fated regress,

always running late anyways

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