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teen poem

pour ces bras blancs au sujet de mon cou
et pain de breaketh pas plus
la neige chuchote au sujet de moi
ma mère m'a enseigné que chaque nuit
si le tueur rouge pensent il massacre
bien que je sois peu en tant que toutes les petites choses
bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate
le parfum est venu
tressé et tissé

 



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