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by larpen
Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Other · #1268398
The rock. The sun. The collision.
I saw Belalia ravaged to the point of death
on a bed of moss
hot wax dripping from her toenails
bound to the mattress
heart in the thunderheads.

Rouge Lips holds the staff
her face belongs to him
as do her children
the whole world tussling their hair.
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