why does it have to remind me of a new home built of dust
the leopard in the basement that makes guests assume things
the desert is blowing up
and if i fall asleep tonight, my limbs will twitch with a dream of a better me
it aches to become me my muscles are twitching shut
the puce of the comfort thats streams bloody mucus, looking at my eyeballs meniscus so long that its stupid, in fantasy getting rid of parts that are wrapping for the gore that becomes me when no one is laughing, the drone in the bedroom never lessens in fervor, in a house built on mars in the sand for a pervert, above the door that holds oxygen that I’m breathing, is cast of an animal kept in permanent breeding
why does the sand have to blind me, why can’t i grow while I’m growing up
liquidated potential looks more and more like I’ve thrown it up
why is the home always stupid, where the heart lays with and becomes scuffed
the parts of my wrapping look more and more like a part thats rough
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