She was cold when she spilled herself onto the blue tiles of the bathroom floor. A rusty pipe bursting, "can’t repair it," he says pulling up his pants and charging for shit. "Oh wait," she remembers, the rug, it’ll stain, and thats bad. I wish i could just stand up and clean this chocolate mess from beneath, but she cant now, too late, shes done, I’m done, its over, and the birds outside dont sing because they hate her.
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