birthplace,
birthplace 72 The aching swan of a father’s stork. The tiptoe blood of a mother’s wasp. We paint for context our privates blue. Touch wrists to sadden our mouths. I still go outside to say any small thing. Our dolls have the same limp.
birthplace 72 The aching swan of a father’s stork. The tiptoe blood of a mother’s wasp. We paint for context our privates blue. Touch wrists to sadden our mouths. I still go outside to say any small thing. Our dolls have the same limp.

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