With a twitch of a kind between hip a spine,
As your cold hands trace shadows down my back.
We bite the peach and taste eccentrica of flesh,
Where debauchery is but a crutch of moonlight.
And silence our aphrodisiac soaking in brine.
Propping up our jawbones holding on to the squids,
Breathing through the gills of depravity.
Rated for Mature(17+)
Holding On To The Squids
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