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l'internet

the virulent little box popped on the page,
spraying lit pixels with atrophy and ichor.
it marked its territory like a jaundiced dog,
scratching the grass pulp, the tender spot.
"he's sick," it coughed, swallowing back humor and bone.
"in the hospital," it chalked, scraping the screen with digital spoons -
it dragged its muddle-train of bits and bites behind,
and left.
fuck.
fuckityfuckfuck.
i really do love him.

Author notes

I don't like it when he's sick...

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