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I am not sugar and spice and everything nice.
I am art.
I am a story.
I am a church bell, gonging out wrongs and rights and normal nights.
I was baby. I am child. I will be mother.
I don’t mind being considered beautiful, I do not allow that to be my definition.
I am a rich pie strong with knowledge.
I will not be eaten.
You swam in a river of chance and coincidence. You clung to the happiest accidents – the rest you let float by
what is stronger/than the human heart/which shatters over and over/and still lives
if you were born with/the weakness to fall/you were born with/the strength to rise
she is water/soft enough/to offer life/tough enough/to drown it away
“It’s impossible,” said pride.
“It’s risky,” said experience.
“It’s pointless,” said reason.
“Give it a try,” whispered the heart.
...how things could be and how they would be instead and said, proud of how they could be, believing in how they could be, even if they never were, “Bon. Nous ferons notre petit possible,” and hung up.
I was within and without. Simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.
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