eighteen.
Lolita-whore
Lolita-saint
In stark white paint dried grey
On tawny olive flesh
She stand so stare-heavy
Rooted in aging hiker boots
To the concrete breast
Of an abandoned factory
Far and far from her sea
She tremble imperceptibly
Breathe fast and young, and me
Slouched apathetically beside myself in
A too-small iron chair
Blowing smoke into already smoky air
Combing smoke
Through clean pale hair
And what a pair I make
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