Brushes were meant to straighten out the fizzle in my mind.
In the future, it will allow me to curl inside its bear trunks
Any amount of discomfort blankets the togetherness
I need not straightlaced folk of that sort, only, the right kind of brush against my cheek
Unlike that which flies into the air, strangely reminiscient of backhands
I am only aware of in my stride.
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