unicorn access
My son dies and my card gets charged three times. I am stunned by no single thing. When I read I read so little under the star of my drinking that touch becomes the lost ambassador of a body I can draw from memory. I can’t imagine my brothers being loved. I can’t imagine my brothers being loved on the same day. I hate how I sit in chairs in my dad’s house. My mom says I write to hurt. My son's stomach is a shape he forgets devouring. In the angel’s ear, plastic is the voice of god.
kingsoftrain 
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