aorta

from a carbon-based-antipodal-liberate, a distorted prose erupts your quilt. if you put all eyes on a mirror reflecting all the cornea-ed colours, add all your hours at church with sneered smiles in your offering, a gamble so truth not visible to an antihero, tending their garden wasn’t the only way, endless puzzles through labyrinth muzzle. there’s a box you hide all your rhinestones, possible bones from whores, letters never written to your bedside manners after one a.m. at one point it was all wireless, the candles in the quietest room , another reflection visible through the chandelier, voices by a pit stop after driving all night, your face comes back to me, remembering conversations and imagining a few with better scenarios. the attempt of falling asleep with fake bug silhouettes, then turning the light on to check, and nothing. my feet walking on white sand, on the smallest island, with an abandoned truck and a missing front- right tire, passing by a cemetery a little buzzed surrounded by wooden-rectangled  lobster traps everywhere, my friend the iguana comes crawling, from above we all look like ants scrambling after having their anthill smashed, we are running to nowhere, we are running everywhere. we need to be shaken a little to be awoken facing a green flower. 

aorta.

this is not me

-medina

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