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Frequently, I found her name waiting—
Waiting for me to call it out
To be a part of my active conscious
And also, quite selfishly, my subdued subconscious.

Her name has a backbone.
But sturdy.
It can stand alone
From who she really is.
If her name slips out the mouth
Like the smoke of mint Hookah
Whilst rolling off the cushion of a soft pair of lips,
It cracks like a whip in air.

The name does not match the face.
A gentle,
Dolefully insecure
Not woman, but
The name is harsh,
Just another lie
To cover her trembling truth.

She’s simply an adult
Still playing dressup in a grownup’s clothes.

As evident for weeks and months,
She’s as lost as she says she is.
Fucked as she says.

But still,

That name.
That name,
That face,
That ping-pong love.

I call her name,
I yearn for her face,
I fiend for that love
Until whipmarks and hypocrisy stripe my body
With the sweetest of blood.


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