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Vix of childhood. Compounds and
leaves minced by rock of
molcajete full of verde and versed
spots. It’s the one that still exists long
before I cried first. Stone to chest and
grateful to puff. Creams that are
delinquent but work every time.
In the moments of cap meets bottle I
still feel the tingle in my toes as
she rubbed it in to make me better. It
was cool marmalade on skin never
departed. Vix of childhood.
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