as we sit in ghost chairs
in the food court
holding our sweaty cans of soft drinks. [mine is pineapple fanta (almost said, fart) and yours is a diet something]
i pierced your filter. the rubber sadness of your selfies.
*and what about you and your light-bulb alter of makeup worship?*
just trying to hold back the godzilla yrs., hide the neon blood.
*summer veins*
moon jellies
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