Platinum blonde, wig on, Naomi Watts, I’m hot take off your top cut heads like a bob I am the Arm that talks molecules split apart you’re looking kinda odd with both of your eye brows shaved off lip gloss smeared off rubbed wrong turned off I, admitted my faults couldn’t stress this enough never asked for any help casted mattress actresses for my directorial debut shoot scenes loosely obscure the meaning of actual truth surreal images capture a juxtaposition this, composition is combustible a sunset and a Tesla special atmospheric pressure from above caused dense transformation switch not quite normal still drive off in that Tesla Model 3 2018 with, Isabella Rossellini no new meaning like a prostitution ring we sell nudity leaving ‘zines open tear out the sheets hang up the pages dangle hair long as thigh length over the terrace eco terrorists on estrogen I can’t, candid, sexism mechanisms named Candice, I kept my side arm in the armoire she wore Liz Claiborne drawers and no bra, brah I hit it raw feminine men famished famous from the Fallout 76 spread out web deception design unrecognizable casual side step Bob Sanders, she field balls no mitt an automatic process like MIG skinny like twig never bent always hit romantic encounters ceased to exist purchased over the counter just, swipe right for credit cut it out edit reloaded deaded surprise compromise buy more time purchase minutes pockets empty on a corner street in the city check it out kid Rey rips, the artist Mister Yo, and the producer Bleach Merchant, mermaids surface for a purpose expose torso tender hidden mid section agenda facial recognition contender I hid for a semester in West Manchester for a total of three months, a trimester, it was wintery, I ate berries, Frosty like a milkshake from Wendy’s