| My mother found a rabid dog
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| And wanted to hug it
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| Wanted to give it all her glorious honey love
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| Wanted to bathe her children in a two-parent household
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| But, the dog didn’t want kids
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| The dog would scream it in the hallway at four A. M
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| Reminding us as often as possible
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| The sheer art of it
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| How the monster could panic into my body
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| Sometimes I still hear it in the chambers of my heart
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| The way some glorious paintings stay with you
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| I am a museum
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| I must be a museum
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| When I was seven, the dog told me I was going to be a slut
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| No one came over to our house to play
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| The dog made me write, «I will flush the toilet seventy-five times»
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| I would’ve remembered to flush the toilet
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| But, I started blacking out around then
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| Forgetting basic things
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| Started praying that Oprah would save us all
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| I took snapshots with my memory camera
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| Hoping there would be justice for this kind of «psyco-warfare»
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| The teachers at the daycare offered apology eyes and extra sequence
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| For the art project
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| The day after, the dog chased me around each room
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| Because I forgot where my other shoe was
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| When you are a child
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| And your mind is panicked like a fire alarm at all time
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| You lose the ability to remember simple things
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| I haven’t lost a personal item in months
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| Do not laugh when I say, 'This is a victory'
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| Shame is an ocean I swim across
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| Sometimes, I call it drowning
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| Sometimes, I call it Moses
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| Sometimes, I say, «Good morning!» |
| and swade through its murky surge
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| Sometimes, I win and cut off its crest with a pink machete
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| Sometimes, I want to fuck it and
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| Marry it and kill it all at the same time
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| Sometimes, I spend my whole day apologizing on shame’s behalf
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| Sometimes, I think it must be an art form to feel this bad
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| Sometimes, I outrun all of its psyco-history
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| Other times, I repeat the language from my child mouth
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| While beating my head against a wall
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| But all the time I am forgiven |