• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 06
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In my most profane of hours I see in color
Don’t tell my mother, but I see street fair flavors floating like drops of cherry air and I pop them on my tongue like bubblegum and then I swallow
No longer hollow where I once was.
I see cocaine coated cakes for a dollar and lipstick on ice cream cones
I see a popsicles stick with caramel curls holler at a man not to lick
and I see skin like I don’t have it
I’ve torn and pasted these pieces into my mind like wishes from a magazine
I, too, want to share a good old sliver of sweet American thigh
I, too, want to wear my leather chest in the summer time.