at four there's this lecture on
errorism omitted the t for
remembrance
of the sick rusted
copper taste of blood
bitten from
tongues, let me
spit when
learning that they
want howling, gaping, wounded souls.
my soul
suffers from shaving nicks, no more than
*boy's* shivering, tremulous voice
imploring heaven for a
big
L
Lover.
all love is a
construction of emo
kids and livejournals fueled by quick
furtive fondles beneath
the fond gaze of cheap
vodka and opportunity.
this isn't bitter, whiskey
is bitter.
today is sober like a schoolteacher.
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