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Oct 2018
Pulp floats
on the illusion of ivory,
hidden love notes and
disease dispelled from the throat.
Deafening nerves
compete with echoes of our screams,
wax drips on all four corners,
residual strawberry preserves.
Obligations I keep
under "notions of love",
and all the stars we put in the sky
because it's too hard to sleep.
Zoe Averill Ren
Written by
Zoe Averill Ren  24/F/FL
(24/F/FL)   
95
 
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