Wednesday 8/26/2009 01:11:00 AM

Her sour sojourn was sweet with rye. As the stammer of touch unfolded. In bent syringes and shattered medicine vials. The valve confessed. It had kept nothing out. She reluctantly admitted to liking that.

The pedestal buckling under the weight of her stare. As she asked him. What it meant.

The dirty paper stabbed under the point of her pencil writhing for colors. She contemplates the forest. Forgetting the trees. She says it's nothing. And it is.

Wilted flowers on the patio where she steps. Yawn the sun in dismal coughs. She chokes down the medicine. And waits. Too long for it to take effect.

She wakes the monsters. Everything is relative. She wakes the monsters and hopes for the best.

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