Custard thighs were baking in her dress. Warm with sugar and sticky with egg. There are many gods to worship, but the ones in skin can never be trusted.
Her lies cycling between truth and agenda in the religion of flesh. The skin inside her like an ocean spitting out the bones.
All her matches gone she guarded the fire as the world began to close. Elevators stopped between floors falling to greet us.
Kicking the ball. Away is always better. Testing the sharp edge of his grin with bits of lipstick. It's a war after all. Some must die for the rest to live.
It's not over until we're strangers again. The moon with its noose and the stars with their fables. Stories we'll never tell, but everyone knows.
She tastes sweeter when you're only remembering her.
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