I Miss You, Slut.

There is an exhaustion, an emptiness I’ve forgotten to be accustomed to. It used to be such a habit, and almost bearable, but now it sneaks up like a thief in the night, flying high, ready for crash mode, Freddy. Somber, incumbent, the goop on each eyelid slapping them shut. I miss you, you slut. Try beckoning me with just one finger, will ya? I’ll dance on your lap, the way death does in mine.

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