the drains are thick with the gulmohar, this unnamed season. a helpless archivist of winters that have bled. october is elsewhere (in your carry-on) i am still the beast with redglass claws, learning the itch of deceit (soundscape: ribs crunching, storm after storm) i find myself always on the edge of some chasm and here in the city, backboned by fog and attar. i live in the space between places that used to be mine. you, an islet girl-turned-monster, i wonder if all that i ever love will always be archipelagic. ✱✱✱
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