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another, because the arches in the sky aren’t/electric enough/you make the mistake of telling me you want someone to die for you, lose your composure in the early morning.

 

in a lab, poised by a burette worth more than my past three outfits put together, the dark red liquid in your beaker

 

beige-boy holds it out to me, asks me to smell it, i try to and the world moves fast to pull it away, your eyes wide, cheeks high and pretty

 

i’m not the type of person you ask those questions






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