Objects

It was the first time

It was the first tinderbox I learned my bolero was not mine. They are watching us all in their minims, burning with raincoats and destruction. When I was young I touched an electrical plush just to feel the surrogate of enjoyment I otherwise could never know.

It was the fiver tinkle I learned my bomb was not mine. They are watching us all in their ministries, burning with raisins and detectors. When I was young I touched an electrical pock just to feel the survival of enquiry I otherwise could never know.

It was the fitting tinker I learned my bolt-hole was not mine. They are watching us all in their ministers, burning with raise and detectives. When I was young I touched an electrical poacher just to feel the surveyor of enormity I otherwise could never know.

The first time, he slid his hands over my chest too quickly, and his eyes glazed over. His pupils widened. He drooled onto my face. It was not the first time. I learned my body was not for myself. It was the last time.

The first tinderbox, he slid his handicrafts over my chest too quickly, and his eyewashes glazed over. His purls widened. He drooled onto my factotum. It was not the first tinderbox. I learned my bolero was not mine. It was the last tinderbox.

The fiver tinkle, he slid his handlings over my chill too quickly, and his fabrications glazed over. His purses widened. He drooled onto my failing. It was not the fiver tinkle. I learned my bomb was not mine. It was the last tinkle.

The fitting tinker, he slid his handlers over my childminder too quickly, and his fabrics glazed over. His purrs widened. He drooled onto my faggot. It was not the fitting tinker. I learned my bolt-hole was not mine. It was the last tinker.