Michelangelo

Cardigan-boy kisses on the dance floor while I’m juggling the greenblueyellowpurple flashslam FLASH into my face, down my dress, drowning out my eyes and entering the slamFLASHslamlike the body of the man who used my tongue before it tasted of wool and gin with his cut-off shirt and his sculptor’s turn.

And maybe his name was Greg, or David. I usually think it’s David. It hardly ever is.

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