We share a sloppy love,
Him and I.
Our clothes are often filthy.
We are 8
We are blushing and coy,
Polar opposites.
He’s never met me half way
We are 13
We are coquettish,
Willing enough.
Nothing much has changed with the seasons.
We are 15
We are solemn
Contemporaneously,
We hid our hearts.
We are 18
We are pained,
Splattered hearts,
Much like smattered paints.
We are in repair
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