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32 Lament for a Shriveling flesh Plant Each morning you rise and apply glue stick to your lips, sealing the words in, then you fill your pockets with kitty litter, sit by the door, and wait. The buzzer aches like the nipples of a wife who hates her husband. Humans are the rarest of plants—needing to be watered inside as well as out, all the while swearing independence. Imagine a dandelion roaring in a field: I’m the one who brings home the sunlight. I sit here by the bed, pressed against my exterior, wishing I had more to give, so in the dark, when you tilt me to your lips, a wave could rinse through your insides, but alas, I’m just a cheap, unwashed glass with three measly ounces of tap water in my grasp, and you are the whore who will one day hurl me against the wall. ...

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