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Ben Swearingen

Brushstrokes

Bottled brushstrokes of you,

Ink-stained thoughts,

And freckled jots.

Wretched

He was marked wretched of the earth

Creased his skin before his crying birth

She crawled out of her youth with a wicked curse

Meet in the matrimony of a dying hearse

Her smoke burned the inside of his throat lining

Her eyes burned with salt from his chronic crying

All they wanted was to be, just to be

Terminal honeymoon

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