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Sep 2018
Black mold holds its breathe
On the ceiling
These bedsheets are soft
And the bottle dry

Suffer in silence,
Mr. tobacco smile
Burning regret
Peels my skin.

I can hear my vagabond mind
Racing
I’ve got you in my thought

My breathe stinks up the air
As I stare at the ceiling
And it weighs
Heavy
On me.
wandabitch
Written by
wandabitch  Promethea
(Promethea)   
  241
   --- and Nik Bland
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