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I was never as naked again
No sorrow, no joy. Fair Trade?
She says my feet are clay..
I’m always outside, not looking in
Have your nails drawn hot blood?
You’re born; it’s downhill from there
She was cold, colder than memories…
I’m never alone with my thoughts
I’ve been everyone’s stained glass window.
Closed galleries have the messiest canvases (inspired by Fionn‘s post)
hbhatnagar 