2011 September:
2010 May:
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2007 December:
2007 November:
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2007 February:
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Walking home, the lustful gaze of strangers Fills me up with bubbles of shallow pride Though I know I'm not that pretty or kind, I hold a beast to feed, a beast to hide, Beating inside, a monster I've contrived: Pieces of men I've loved sown together, All stiched and bloated and sore and alive, Bruises of their flesh, marrow of their mind, Each flake soaking in their deepest passion, One by one like a knowledge collection. Was it them or myself that I have loved? or is it simply none of the above
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