I bleed days like I bleed water

no pigment

no red to stain the windows that house my waking state

Clear lines on old faces

telling stories with a dash of mystery thriller

A baby cries and the smell of apple pie


lingers on the tongue of some poor girl

on her seventeenth go at this thing called ‘diet’

My eyes witness endless movie scenes

without the magic of an edited movie screen

and so my lips curve upwards at the slightest falter in a step

as though stepping out of place

was the most humiliating thing you could do

in this game they called ‘life’

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