pulling teeth.
and sucking everything out of your sockets.
i taste the years of things left unsaid in your blood.
iron copper oil.
you're rich, baby, you're rich.
every morning
i stand under the water in the shower
and touch my wrists.
feeling where i'll make my mark.
that was all i could think when you
said you were glad i wasn't dying.
i guess it depends on how you define
"dying".














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