she owns two of his three bulges
satanists made her mix-tapes
her gills ain’t never been wet
her legs have a laager mentality towards mine
only the mirror achieved tenure in her bedroom
i’m not the best of the insecure poets
he prays his looks are a rehearsal
she was no more than her begats
her toils on mattress coils boils
i hate the environment i don’t owe you reasons as to why
like wolraad woltemade she could never stroll by drowning men
i feel the atmosphere owes me a molly coddle
under the bed an inflatable mattress for guests under the mattress a floor for her kin
memorised her shopping list its feat was its economy
will i be there?
my ideal job would be to unsharpen your pencils
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