The Fake Ad, the Doctored Images

Sitting on a pink lawn chair, sitting on a dusty air conditioner.
Throughout the day, the morning moves slowly. Visit the motel.

Sunlight pours in, searching for something to fill the dark.
I keep myself busy with this: some sleep, a box of Starbucks.

In a more subdued mood, pacing around a dark motel room,
I became that girl, juggling enough, writing a horror movie,

a duet with Beyoncé. I know I’m not doing shit. No doubt.
Proof of life, a lesson in human behavior. I’m not ashamed.


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