I missed you, she whispers through thorny lips, her Magdalene taste still on the tip of my tongue, whisps of smoke curling down her face like tendril-vines. No free will left, her decadence demands sacrifice, and I am the all too willing victim; star skin tears like cellophane underneath razorwire fingers. We will always be together, I said, and she laughed.
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I hate it. I used to be able to write, I swear. Lately everything that comes out is like this. Ugh.