Tangled in the cold, clammy stuff that you’re made of
Aren’t you too old to be sucking on your thumb?
Questioning the reasons you came here in the first place
At the sobriety check, you reach in back for a stick of gum
I see myself in every dead animal
Disemboweled on the side of the road
I see the wind carry flower pedals
Into the mouth of the storm
No one ever asks how old the pretty ones are
Because no one wants to know
Sometimes before you leave they throw you several parties
Sometimes they just let you go
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