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Out


I built my trousseau and there was no one
to help move it from my bedroom. I gave up,
slept on the floor for the rest of my life and at 28
went out and shut the door to that room.
Outside, neighborhood kids threw pennies
at me like I was a fountain for their wishes:
Take my acne; Kevin, Kevin; Set me afire.
 
Lonely people were once parceled into asylums.
Now a world of individuals skates down Shank
Painter Road finally out, finally a good place
to park their cars and let the dogs run out onto the
Atlantic beaches and shit.