In

The construction jukebox is the way the metals grind together, carnally and repulsively, to foster bone growth.  The tissue wraps around the hideousness to present a seasoned maturity like that of curdled milk.  As the joints twist and burn, so does the hair, so does the soul.  “Let me see you,” I ask, and then I hide under my covers because the walls open and the heart bleats so begrudgingly.  

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