I exist on the lake where my father drowned. The headlines red nothing of suicide. From where I am sitting I can see flamingos on the shore. Perfect and plastic they are frozen in judgment of me. Catholic guilt floods me again, Ma is working like hell trying to ease her pain
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(no i mean it, on a scale of one to ten, my words are a 6, you're a 9 1/2, and you only get a half point off for that junkie picture, woman.)
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