Dirty Story


I look out from my spire of fuss and buzzkill. A carriage is awaking on the hill. The sun shifts and maybe it is you come for the annual tap. Last year you rode right up and with your spurs aglitter clicked your tongue. Did you think I was a home? I would buckle under you? I look again and the angle of everything has changed. There is no sun here and I am the sun, that starched, appalled. The something I have become is truly unbecoming.

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