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Promise of rain never came. Heat soaked up
in the pavement. In the trees. In my skull,

all pinned and needled together. Adult
subject matter means just one thing. Gristle

and shanks, you write about cum and moisture
and things you think I want to hear –– the ride

high and holy, my face comely in painsure,
feeling me harden even more inside

you. But that’s not me. When I say I ache
–– that’s just literal. When I say I’m more

scars than skin –– if you’d seen me naked you’d
agree. And this trapped heat? It’s the earthquake

that leaves you in rubble. Last god of gore.
No rain but eruption. Grotesque when nude.