Season of the PMS

I’ve just unscramble and open the skin of my soul,

and for the way of being you and me and some of it,

not being part of nothing, feeling part of walls,

trapped in between as a chanting of the stones,

new ones build up from wires and mixtures of nails,

trying to forget what was allready inside,

ghost snails slime through the plates,

at the blue buddle, hinding in soapy water.

There’s nopal spikes and chile inside my feelings

I got soulache

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