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I’ve been thinking about kissing more with tongue and licking my soup bowls clean. I’m going out with gentlemen with dog names—Max, Charlie, Rex, Tuna. There are only a few things I know to be true like peaches are summer fruit and I’m afraid of my parents dying before I have babies. My therapist thinks I need to chill. She assigned me some self-love work so I’ve been memorizing Madison avenue like I did where I creased, all the folds manicured. I’m growing an aversion to gloves, I need more wiggle room. To manage my mania I find solace in love notes from strangers on the internet i bet you like knowing i’m looking at your body, a good girl like you will show me everything i need to see. I’m so grossed out and turned on, measuring the void in empty glass bottles and baskets of browned tissue. Will changing my life make me like it? I’m not prepared to have my psychotic break till twenty-five years from now. I don’t know how to live without needing to prove my deservingness to exist without shrinking. I couldn’t tell you what’s preferable, floating or maintaining my body like a project. Either way I have another question, for god or the next man crawling through my door, am I as dirty as I was in August, letting my open back stick to the subway seat? It’s February now, still clubbing but rerouting away from west side walk-ups, huffing through alphabet city smelling like hermit crab. I pick up the pace by Valentine’s Day restaurants, where I cried over parched chocolate cake. That was last year, I’ve uninvited staleness from my party. Why is it sixty degrees tonight? My sight’s getting worse and the planet is burning, so I like to keep my eyes closed whenever I can. I’ll only fixate on things that make me laugh. Love You Forever, the children's book, is propped on a rave’s street corner. Inside I’m dancing with an old guy, told me he’s only dated women that are too interesting, as if that was a bad thing.