the great god pan is dead.
by moniqueezeh
spilled butane from a refilled lighter
heat lightning in the humid air
cigarette butts in a dirty cupholder
— not sure if this is still your number. part of me hopes it isn’t.
hand-me-down jeans that don’t fit anymore
bleach fume-induced headaches
burnt plastic setting off the fire alarm
— i’m leaving soon. i won’t promise i’ll be back.
overgrown grass from 8 days of rain
singed skin over a candle’s flame
rotting meat at the bottom a trash can
— death doesn’t discriminate. i know that now.
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