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cafethe remnants of croissantspulled apart by ink-stained fingerswith reddened cuticles.write to me.flopsy, mopsy, cottontail and petersoft blonde hai..
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i was spinning, giratingin the holdof his cold, pallid hands.lovely,endearing,lonely,generally melancholy,they called me.the bay of the crowdand the l..
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boys used to treat me,like some kind of butterfly.and it's true,he says, 'you feel so fragile tonight'.i am not breakable,but i want to be exceptional..
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he talks-the world spiral up in the airlike cigarette smoke.i tie knots in my clothesbite my pinky nailand my mind wanders.sipping tealetting you talk..
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i hold no thrallfor boys with beardswho venture out into wet nights.no spasmsin his unmoulded seveteen year old bodyno worrying, intoxicating gleamin ..
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we walkedhand in handand you were therescraping the damp hair from my face.in cotton shirtsand underwear.kissing rain blotchesand then suddenlymy neck..
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hold my hands, grasp my wrists, pull my hair, tug my shirt, stroke my skin, graze my arms, tickle my ankles, tease my feet, rub my stomach, kiss my ey..
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i read the scrappy paperbacks,from cover to cover.imagining,the darkfolds of the tent.so here we are,lover.shadowed eyesand soft skin.the slightly ful..
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i am less alone,in the car.and the seats that were not madefor human affection(we agreed)as i sat in your lapat three or four a.m.and felt your hands ..
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his eyes wide in his face,he blinkedlike a deerand attacked me with vigour.all the sweetnessand the charmabsent from your aspect...in your grasping.ho..
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