My unwashed clothing
smells like Toby's butt. The breath, once floral, now more drying
pond. You know, that delicate scent of rotting carp tangled in mud-choked
vegetation. My vision, long gone, ruined by some kind of STD. A real
Trojan Horse. Clouded eyes roll under dark glass. People lean me up
against a wall and tell me to “stay”. Expecting to get a biscuit,
I freeze...as they stick a candy cigarette into my yap.
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