dirty white

bloodmilk.

this room is white and dirty and too small for conversations. sadness or maybe just a sense of discomfort. she envisions others, in this moment, clutching wine bottles in candle lit basements and at the edge of chairs by fat notebooks. it’s all a big fucking mess! get off the road in a flaming accident where there’s noise and people die big deaths in the deep black-brown mud of nowhere. silver sands, sweat on the walls.

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