A rounded body on a not straight head. It comes with awkwardness, the scene of many battles. Curse of the non-beautiful and the aesthetically dead. He hates himself, it is his shield; hardened and bolted to a deep abiding lock. Nothing moves or yields within. Everything is shut. Solid as a rock. The squinting child. I imagine his mother was an acre of a woman; with great folds and dull instincts. Her body a forge to his distaste. Wide hips and bitter milk? Did he nestle in close with a strong naked-need, only to gag and gulp on all the love she left out? MB
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