Shuli washed her hair twice
that day.
One for her love to cleanse
all impurities of reality
and one for herself.
She took a nap twice
that day.
One for love that took
her melatonin,
And another to forget.
Shuli laughed twice that day.
One on behalf of her tainted
Love,
And another on her botched brain
cells.
She cried a quarter that day.
Half a quarter filled with anger,
and the other half with shame.
She danced twice that day,
One for lost time on love,
And another for her love for dance.
Shuli wrote twice that day,
One for her heart and
Other for her brain.
She gave two hugs that day,
One for her wet pillow
And another for herself.
Shuli played hostess twice
that day,
One for her pain and
the last for her sanity.
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