I'm writing a new poem called The Politics of Obesity. I've been working on it for a couple of months now. It started out small, just ten lines or so. It's grown now, twice the size, because while I said what was true in the first version, it wasn't all the truth -- it didn't cut close enough to the bone.
And if I can't cut close, there's no point to writing it at all. If I don't bleed writing it, why fucking bother.
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Don't know why he's clothed in the shower, and don't care.
Freaking LOVE this picture!
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