on a quarter turn.

February 2, 2011

the tiny tide rolling over a lower lid. born with it curves. faked tidal interpretations get crush them like little bullshits. what the fuck is this, huh? why does it come out of me like that? i’m like this. and oh, how i cried. and oh, how.

knows they were forsaken. knows it was no mistake. no knowns proclaimed before the body.

and still. a hot iron pressed to the forehead.

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