i believe i have never told you the story of my mud house.
and one monsoon, eight months after your birth - they burned my house. with fuming gasoline and tar. i still have a little piece of the molten iron from the door by the alley -scribbled 'sin' across its diagonal. in a bold red; possibly pastel. with the stench of cold, moaning gasoline drips and smudged finger prints. i wish they were mine- little concentric lines piling into a spot.
so many days have passed by. mister x, i still smell your sweat.
and one monsoon, eight months after your birth - they burned my house. with fuming gasoline and tar. i still have a little piece of the molten iron from the door by the alley -scribbled 'sin' across its diagonal. in a bold red; possibly pastel. with the stench of cold, moaning gasoline drips and smudged finger prints. i wish they were mine- little concentric lines piling into a spot.
so many days have passed by. mister x, i still smell your sweat.
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