It’s the little pills behind thick bars,
the hurling whites and blues,
the sweet veins of consumption;
It’s that hard plastic taste,
those light strips, bright frost,
this mundanity in bloom;
It’s her rubberband cry,
her satin march,
her chorus of keening tongues;
It’s walking home,
breathing in,
gilded heat.
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Cloudbusting
bessore
bessore
Posted underProse & PoetryThe BucketUncategorized
