the piercing screams
of tortured men and women
echoing through the void
do not
compare to the time
I woke up
in my bed, still human,
naked during the summer,
with a fat roach
walking over my cock.
of tortured men and women
echoing through the void
do not
compare to the time
I woke up
in my bed, still human,
naked during the summer,
with a fat roach
walking over my cock.
many great novels
are written
from such traumas,
and I’m about to go
into page 25.
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