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Victim Against overlapping blades of grass falls a dance of black feathers on olive skin. Echoes of broken porcelain in clay, red with perspiration, rise from a battle already lost. A prey without shadow marked by the scent of rust. Your eyes find me a ladder without rungs lost in ambient movement our hands enfold your breath against me “Nobody is watching” darkness comes over us the wick burned to its end. Your skin on my tongue blood on my hands. |
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