| the amateur camera captures her motion perfectly.
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| as the strangle knot that she wears on her wrists.
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| the trunk preserves the new scent of the princess skin.
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| disinfectant spit adding luster to chapped lips.
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| if she comes to, i’ll tell her that she’s beautiful.
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| all thses flies are gathered in admiration.
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| perhaps we should offer them a new wound.
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| i think you’re right, this isn’t really happening.
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| this isn’t really happening.
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| can’t get the smell out, can’t get the mascara off the apolstry.
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| oh, this isn’t really happening, this isn’t really happening.
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| still everyone keeps laughing at me.
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| oh god, this is going to end badly.
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| if you don’t wake up, i’ll have to stop kissing you.
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| all that flailing has made you sleepy.
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| you rest while i untie you, wait here until they find you.
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| we’ve got some time before the reverie ends.
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| i’ve combed my hair, brought you your sunday dress.
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| tonight we’ll magnetize the eyes of this whole town.
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| my hand made mannequin.
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| i won’t let them get you.
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| they’ll know you’re mine by the fingerprints on your throat.
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| isn’t she lovely?
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| isn’t she wonderful?
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| like the whores that we are, swatting flies from the wounds we design.
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| this is not about fear.
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| paranoia is a disease of the unarmed.
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| this is beauty.
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| a sickening concern for the transcience of flesh.
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| we keep our screams behind the gag.
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| i keep my baby’s breath in a Glad bag. |