The circus that I walk to be. The fraction that I want you to see. The rancid taste of thinking that I'm ok. So give me what I think is love. Punch me with an iron glove. Pull from the stool like I'm a boy again.
Covers grasped beyond the doors. Weighing on what isn't yours. Actions without looking. She was half of you. The banish to the corner stands. The twist from fucking chainsaw hands. The mother is the grace note that's always silent.
The flesh is burning ever still. Hereditary overspill. Appeal is getting thinner but I am holding on. Confessions that are never sworn. This desperate who seeks out the storms. Involuntary hands upon the fire again.
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