“the myth is, you and i tell each other we are / beautiful, precious, rare creatures, we are beholden / but we are scarred, i only have one gift: / surviving a horror movie with my song”
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the needle skips, you pour more salt. i’m not fucking listening, / i promise. throw scripture into static—rip
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"Bitches, / let us gather. / howl at the moon, / to our mother of all things / large and small."
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