In discomfort, my pleasure is offered two minds, people make love in my childhood bedroom during these tough times. The master bedroom was sanitized of mother’s
custody and rented for currency; the mortgage is his daughter, she must be taken
care of properly.
The papier-mâché flowers have bred every secret belonging
to offcuts of yesterday’s diary, spanning branches tacked onto cheap
wallpaper since I was thirteen. Employed unknowingly to watch over
the labor of un-regal sex, their leaves wilt with my dead wishes every
time a cheerful execution of my earlier nature
visits in absence.
Eagerly, while mingling free in flowing secretions, these people unravel carnal favors. Cupping breasts, sucking cock; helping one another touch enigmatic heights. These glow in the dark stars have yet to retire; they were meant to clear a path for this child’s end-stopped reach finding sanction in the ripples of divorce
not to shed light on spousal infidelity defined in action.
To do so, one must humbly
see Coward.
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