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Horoscapes: Libra



The kind of girl who masturbates inside a tornado. All your life you’ve thirsted for a shiny apocalypse, skin stained hot pink with those organs you wear inside-out. Whether mohawking the night with heavy metal or bombing booze under the bridge, you’d choke every cloud you could if your eyes didn’t glisten so scab, giving away your gothic imperatives. To the sea you speak: levitate us from boredom! & dive-bomb in a blink—Black Kamikaze Mermaid. Let the wind sharpen your nipples to a fine glacial chrome. Permahorny for thrills, fearless since day one you flash your freak badge & stare down the sun knowing it will wince first. Impenetrable in a leather jacket, as if one could tame life with a capital ‘L,’ cork infernos or trap an orgasm in a rusty bird-shaped locket. Tell me: do stupid girls always sleepwalk through the grave tapping a cowbell & stroking a ukulele? Might as well offer The Bogeyman a teddy bear, or an amputated rabbit a lucky rabbit’s foot. When you meet your maker, you’ll be dressed in a skirt of blue flame & sequined knives. Some endure the indignity of limping toward their end but you’ll gallop with grace, imperious wearing a crown of kerosene scars.

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