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is this why so many pop singers write about december?

the kind of day you’ll pretend didn’t happen because ‘how the hell do we act normal after the things we said?’

the kind of week to trail a saturday when your throat opened up to warn that tequila is not your friend

the kind of month to show you twenty-six isn’t as boring as you believed and your body can be more than your own – but not right now…

the kind of year that can’t die fast enough

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