His seed


She hates the blankets of the night,
Hovering over the yellow of the sun
Into a boiling skin, sweating,
Soaking in a night gown,
Drowning in a pool of flooding terrors,
Flashing slates of memories

A dark alley, a subway,
Trailed by a hooded phantom
laying on her back, flimsy,
Chocking on her fading screams
In fright of the red mask,
The weight of his seed


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