Sometimes I stay up until 5am and write horrid, rotten things.

Gutted guttural breath from my mouth that used to be all teeth but has now rotted and festered and decayed and bloomed with the ripeness of it all with the out of season fruits melting in the in between and betwixt your gums and mine and mine and yours you take and rot and sup on the bloody pomegranate that trickles down my chin and onto my caving heaving chest I scream and screech and wail as you crack and cut me open and feast on the dying on the dead on me and I tear at my own sides until I see red and peaches and nothing but you and your teeth.

[Written August 31st, 2016]

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