in the wheels, the gears, the hinges, the doors
desperate whispers of grinding flesh
and the low hum
like french horns in an orchestra
a xylophone man with sunglasses and chipped teeth
pounding on your stomach
because you can't digest your lies
the good grip of a window washer
slipping on her work
shooting senior yearbook pictures
folding over in her rolls
wanting a smile to be genuine
to fuckin scared to be(so)herself
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