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Aug 2013
Her mouth tasted of cigarettes and honey and the room was dark .
She lured me in with her distraught complexion and bottles of cheap ***** .
Nailed the doors shut and ****** me dry.
While the walls creaked and the roaches laughed.
In broken beds with broken people,
that's the only way I sleep at night.
A new pair of legs and this one has radiant skin that **** near glows.
There's a blemish by her **** in the shape of heart and under that heart is nothing.
She's hollow and damaged.
A defective mannequin that wonders the dim lit streets in folly.
I walk those same streets with equal fatuity.
JC Moyao
Written by
JC Moyao  Atlanta
(Atlanta)   
894
 
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