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The leaves have this curl to them;
Racing past, golden hues like wisps of a horse tail not yet fenced in.
No more stiffening of this black substance.
This is more beautiful than pleasure I read.
One by one they fall, taking the last year with them.
Away from me.
Candy apple red; I want my lips to match.
But I can only see the glow around me,
Shedding its skin.
And full like everything else,
It helps me molt then retreat.
I’m so fucking sick of being humyn.

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