Your veins seem to be a great place to get lost,
bouncing to and from your heart
but
I find myself in a house of flies
and silicon lies
where the paint on the walls is peeling
and there’s a hole in your roof
the fridge greets me with Dijon mustard
and a halfempty tub of margarine
and well,
I need some fine wine,
travel time,
for me to be mine
and you,
you need to be nicer
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