dear me.

i was the baby you left behind. you’ve heard it all around, always carry the child in you, and yet, you somehow forgot to put me in your pocket or wherever you keep idle stuff. i cried out but that never works out.

anyway, i’m writing to you.

i’m writing because there are some stuff you left with me, things that you cannot retrieve if you weren’t to take me as well. packaged deal. you’re all grown but what of that? if you were truly grown, than you wouldn’t mind showing off feet of clay, or whatever the hell they call it. (freewriting, eh? hahaha.) i know i’m not making sense but very few people do anyway, and the good thing about it is, sometimes, when you’re making the least sense, that’s when they’ll all look at you, oohhh and aahhh, and say, “oh, she’s so profound.” you know that, too, don’t you?

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