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‘She was walking away from a beach

where the world was bruised like a peach,

her bum, wobbling like a teeter totter,

a man with a six pack who was objectively hotter

ask her for the digits in her phone,

she tells him that she isn’t alone.

he strolls into waves without shoes

as she tastes the sweet nectar of bruise.’

a line forms a triangle and the steps

turn into a walk, her dreams are

not her snores, the waves are not

from shores.

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