Indulge my farce,
Oh dear mirror—
And bald my contortions,
—with the grin of a scorned belle.
Whatnot be I, trust I pray thee,
Never once was. I swear.
Such is the fleeting memory,
—of days fast gone into nights.
And sorry nights gone by so fast.
The past is fogged. Buried.
A blissful teenage angst, isn't it?
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