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botfly i retreat back to my room, with another body to exhume, inhale your memory like floral perfume. touch your neck, ruin your necklace because i’m allergic to gold. the gods built me as a statue, doomed to stay the same, made you as a circle of life and death, cursed to always change. my hands are blue, pale and cold, in the summer mornings before the sky cries warm. breathe in flames, refuse to spit in your open mouth, (i won’t be the reason you turn green with mold.) i