11:45

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there is a teacup resting on my windowsill

and paint is still splattered on my sheets

the moon fights to pour light between swaying curtains-

eager to shine awareness on each moral sin.

my body is washed in numbness

but it dries out with the twitch of a limb

fiery heat bites the skin no longer fighting to stay covered

but is caressed by the cold licks of wind.

the canvas of golden-brown is a deep purple

and yellow begins to make itself known too

but I remind myself pain always passes-

despite it being the way kidney stones do.

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