Something about that little cigarette, that burning torch of withered ash, or maybe it’s the hand it’s perched in.
Never have I met such a flame, one that knows the pain I crave, one that chews my skin away, and reads the mind I hide behind blind eyes despite hard lines I find that knives relax my spine with nine lives to pass the time.
I’m completely faking, heart is aching for a lesson and a need caressing, on my knees confessing and I struggle with obsessing, clawing at perfection, fit the mold I’m stretching, feel the breeze undress me
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