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I taste stale coins 

and wet words;

my lip cracks like blistering 

sidewalks midsummer.


There's a country song

buzzing worlds away, low static radio bleeding love songs while

my love song grips

my hair by the roots, keeps me

spitting static pink blood

into an industrial sink, sings 

baby, won't you be my summer night? 

the slick slide of his tongue hot in my ear,

strong fingers dug in tight like five hungry hyenas.


His hand trails down and down the

knobs of my spine, 

buried under bruising flesh;

with the stars above us,

he croons, yellow light above the stove

flickering erratically, mosquitoes panicking

as the glow grows warmer, the 

lightbulb straining like my wick is shrinking.


He is

vanilla stick sick with scalpel bones that 


into the back of my thighs,

deserts of skin that stretch 

a bit too wide for his liking. 

I watch

bubblegum blood drip off my chin and

down the drain,

he says, 

baby, won't you be my summer night? 

His calloused palm emerges in front of my face,

clumps of my dark hair loose in stiff fingers, whispers,

baby, everything'll be alright

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