“Hi. It’s your drug addict family member again
You know the drill. I’m asking for money.”
She didn’t even hide it anymore. The way the sun bleaches
The bank buildings in the morning. The way the
white stone and travertine hurt your tired eyes
on the expressway
And your stomach’s tight as the shadows are all splashed out
By a humorless sun.
“Can’t hide from me.”
It was kind of like that.
Beauty is Imperfection 
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