I remember a pale pink liquid dripping down the cold tiled
walls of my bathroom, a foaming pink fluid that smells like sawdust and
grapefruit. I wipe it away, again and
again, but it always returns.
And I can recall the oldest blue formed in the heart of a distant supernova, blue formed in the death of stars and buried deep within the Earth.
I have livid purple bruises under mottled skin; I have ignored the vivid warnings of bright red lipstick. The antenna surgically grafted to my skull allows me to see the colors between the fleeting fragments of time.
And I can recall the oldest blue formed in the heart of a distant supernova, blue formed in the death of stars and buried deep within the Earth.
I have livid purple bruises under mottled skin; I have ignored the vivid warnings of bright red lipstick. The antenna surgically grafted to my skull allows me to see the colors between the fleeting fragments of time.
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