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FRIENDS FOR THE KEYS, BABY.
Called ID,
Old texts get scrolled through like rewinding a mixtape, hoping to land on the one where mama's just checking in and someone actually picks up. The CD skips right there, right on mama's name, right on the part where mama's voice said a name so soft it basically lived rent free in a memory that took way too long to notice.
The constant in a decade obsessed with being anything but constant. And honestly? Mama always got it right.
FRIENDS FOR THE KEYS, BABY.
Called ID,
Glitter-and-Guilt.Old texts get scrolled through like rewinding a mixtape, hoping to land on the one where mama's just checking in and someone actually picks up. The CD skips right there, right on mama's name, right on the part where mama's voice said a name so soft it basically lived rent free in a memory that took way too long to notice.
The constant in a decade obsessed with being anything but constant. And honestly? Mama always got it right.