Racing past, golden hues like wisps of a horse tail not yet fenced in.
No more stiffening of this black substance.
This is more beautiful than pleasure I read.
One by one they fall, taking the last year with them.
Away from me.
Candy apple red; I want my lips to match.
Shedding its skin.
It helps me molt then retreat.
I’m so fucking sick of being humyn.
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