I am this chalky, red balloon deflated on the tattered mat by your mother's kitchen door, praying to be kicked under the stove, perhaps, and forgotten about my words, always fervent to a fault, breathing life into the specter of my likeness, bearing my burden, and my bounty, tonight, are stale, pale stillborn, sweating blood because tonight, for pity's sake, I edit myself out
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Alora Ray is 20, temporarily lives in Northern Virginia, perpetually lives in a state of denial, performs for whimsy, writes by necessity.
