By C.L. Liedekev
Every sound stops. The smell of peach vodka, stale water, mildew’s harvest of sheets slips under the door. My nose gone white fills the space past the reflection in smudged light, our sweat becomes the blood of the earth. Her wrists grip the bathroom’s disabled counter, rolled bills spill onto the rug as desperation forms clouds on sunk jeans. We are voyeurs born of heat and chapped lips and the need to grind each other back into powder. Outside the party fires on and everyone hears flames.
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