I started next to myself when I bowed to orgasm as its limp cloud of openness.
Now I read strings dropping from the sky and strangling my anger to be womanly.
Catch this -- the night reasons with itself over my life as I make myself Andrea.
Guilt fashions a reason to be my own rash answer to why I got this pain made.
As you worry about my things, I ask you, where were the people and where are the losses?
Let yourself be empire and I'll be rotary for the grain that you decide to make for your taste.
That is not my failure. I am your gray thank you and your cruel lace.
Edward Mammy Rose the Leftist golden mother of laughter.
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