Leaking, pulseless wither-men forecast stormfront microcells. Cyanide flash flood, not a dam in sight. Eviscerated leather; seeping blood, leaves a trail down the highway: skylight hemorrhage. A flash of all before you: swollen tonsils pirouette
through formaldehyde orbits in a hazy glass jar in some kind of musty, creepy closet cracked encrusted memory. Your second-grade toes tip from a 1-ply mattress across Freon tiles. Scared of more pinhole blackouts, you step into the palm of a young nurse she leaves you with a nickel after each visit. The blonde angel sings encouragement, hangs a new transfusion. Thank her for fighting off the genes beneath your tattered skin. Comments are closed.
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