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Frances, it’s about time I made one
out for you, how you ran out of
chances, though I’ve cut many lines
for you over how we now keep

your ashes in a vault underground
and how it now amounts to this:
I detest every gram of sympathy
back when I sniffed myself clean

of conscience, I confess, I let my
memories of you rust with the rest
of everything I trusted, in truth I
was testing if God would ever smite

me and in doing so I learned how to
be empty but in spite of that I spit
on allusions of perfection, daring
anyone to cross me, to fight me,

accepting my gravity over innocence:
I’m grounded by resistance, in every
fleeting moment my movement feels
hellbent so I pay my respects without

regrets and I owe nothing over it, I’ll
take death over servitude, forever left
crooked and doubled over with fortitude.
I’ve struggled to never repent.

And I’ll never know where you went.
and I spend no second glances at the
ground anymore. If you’re ever anything
it’s my perseverance.

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