Through the purple leaves,
you’re sitting in the sand.
But you could really be anyone
so it doesn’t really matter,
does it?
It’s not like the golden sand
would accept your flesh,
And if you’re not real
the mahogany roads of Dunewood
won’t belong to anyone
but me.
And every time i go up those
harsh steel stairs
Another morsel of your
heavy peach body disappears
so far away from Dunewood.

I remember when your eyes,
the color of fabric,
disappeared into the
and as the sea curved
and shot upwards
It squeezed your legs
like vines surrounding
the fullest olives.
And i didn’t do anything
‘cus i thought you were
faking it.
But the ocean pulled you
under and as the vines consumed
your torso
I could feel your

Your lungs burning
filling with insects
Yellow legs
You’re on fire, how ironic.
Dunewood somehow
has remained as a place
of serene terror
once again.
It’s beautiful and
it’s disgusting.
A mutilated limb,
a rejected replacement.
I knew from a young age
What I hated and what I loved
And i loved beauty
but hated disturbed peace
And now look at me

a place of mutilated
beauty, bleeding and
pulsing red beaches,
severed connections
and deformities
laying in the sand
And honeysuckles
drooping from trees
and sandy lemonade stands,

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