Predictable Melancholic Regiments

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Distilling the Moon.

You and I sleeping in a rain carriage.
Too much spit in my mouth that wasn’t mine,
tasted like cigarettes so I don’t need some still sin fix tonight.
You say I’m pretty after you steal me .
Kidnap me for some sexual innuendo to write about and tell me later
how my hips weren’t moving enough.
And it’s those glossy hips under a skeleton to curse you out.
Undermining some whorish glory
Now we’re fucking thirsty in a drought.