Don't flatter yourself.
You gave me temporary glaucoma, but I can see again.
You told me about your playground girls and
your Los Angeles girl and
all those other high school girls.
I found our notebooks by the way.
I tucked them away in a box to deal with later.
I stared at the sun too long and your image burned onto my eyelids. But I blinked -one-two-three- and that was that.
The word 'vague' sticks in the back of my mouth and tastes like a swamp.
I'll gargle you away in a day or two.
I lost approximately zero minutes of sleep over you.
Don't worry, darling.
My heart isn't breaking.
And I don't want the world to see me, cause I don't think that they'd understand. When everything's meant to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.
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