quirky
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I, the boink, trill as I bounce down the street
Ignoring all else, I move at my own beat
The boink is not a walker, I have no feet
The drum of my step is none but a bleat
PLASMA
I donate my plasma a lot these days because
it makes me think of you.
You thought it was silly how
I pass out at the sight of blood
She
pens her whispers into hushed handwriting.
shouts her fears, thoughts, angers into the cold clean air.
slinks through every inhalation that passes,
