my phone, my cigarette, my keys, my old-soul coffee enwrapped in one palm. my denim pocket unhurt from the sharpness pivoting in my right arm. this is what i am accustomed to. this is what i was born for. balancing myself for the creation of men, for men, with men. babydoll, petal, flower girl? names embroidered not taloned in my porcelain skin. babybrown, ribbon beneath my knees, braided lashes.
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