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Mar 2016
Shallow still darkness, angless shapes
move across the floor. Your teeth bite
down on my little moving parts, slip softly into comatose.

The stench from your breath is acerbic, rotten
particles of yesterday's remembrance floating in between canine,
molars, pearly whites.

I love the feeling, love the dead pan feeling. Comatose
take me to the underworld it took you.
Rochelle Roberts
Written by
Rochelle Roberts  London
(London)   
696
   Rapunzoll
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