A mother’s prison struggle.

The muted walls of this cell leaves anindelible grime of paranoia… It stings.Stinging like an endless chirp blended with the thought of halting the patternof inhale exhale. Bright blue is only therainbow in sight and never did a lullabyof the golden bell resonated the cold ground. Those hot bars are frying the bitter salt I once enjoyed. It bubbled.Momentarily, I glimpsed at my vibratingreflection. Those big round eyes, it mirroredthe squinting eyelids of my little Dante.Oh, my poor tiny Dante. Heavy barrageof red and dark brown robes imply….that you’re not meant to be here withme. With me, in my pouched arms.Steel blankets would suffocate your fragile spine, just like how many saints behave badly with crimson tempt. Tough call.Fistic kisses, sweet curses, dry-iced tearsstreaming…..smoking. Your curling fingerstastes like burning cotton while I laughed.No, I will not beg. The piercing echoesof my feet will reign over the sobs.Gripping faint chances, bushy eyebrowssignalled the pull of the tug.Strongly daunted refusal drawn wispyrunaway of sanity. That was twonights ago. Throbs bargain with thestomping keys, they will never twitchwith pity. How can the crooked cementeat my nails? Hair strands embraced mychipped legs, pinned and thorned. Theshadows dancing around squirtedblood with blue sweats.They again bubbled.They popped like nine flashbacks.And thereupon, I folded the knifeI used to lick
http://www.jillstanek.com/apologetics/women-do-the-ti.html 

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