Stillbirth. 04 — Murder Tramp Birthday


Every time I knock on the night sky, another star detaches and falls to my feet I’m on my hands and knees, thin slivers of my dream leaving me trough my mouth spit, rinse and repeat It is hurting now mother, tragedies unbirthed make poor stories in the end A lot like Frida, I […]

via Stillbirth. 04 — Murder Tramp Birthday

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