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In which verne still can't write, lol.

octobr

silence is scarier
Pronoun
it
eajifwpefo can't make spacing work this sucks.

---

Twenty-four hours on my own I can't wear sunglasses anymore
light spinning gold out of smoke out of boys out of home
and it sticks in my eyes like I'm blinking at a lightbulb
but pulled into my lungs, I don't see it anyway.

Scared like hell. It's like
the way into my skull is lightning-lit floorboards
breathing loud under splashes streaming stormclouds
I'm still too young to know better

Making sense of things: cigar visions
still embedded in the cracks of sacred summer lips --
sacred, as in compare our blood
-- should have burned a ring through his throat to his stomach,
way he spat tobacco disappointment
on my feet when I turned back

Fingerprints on soft leather wheels and tire treads burning on asphalt.
families growing down and fizzling out.
Piercing lungs with bone to make room for compressed chest,
I still don't have what I want.

My own smoke is rusted.
twenty-five hours on my own.

--

I need to give stanza four a nice kick to the vagina but I don't know what to replace it with.
 
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