The clock glows above me.
I'm no longer a girl Day.
But in the middle of July.
Two days later, she's dead
Waiting for my turn, wondering
What if it had been me on that train platform,
cold and lifeless in front of my sister's eyes.
Slain down, young martyr.
Say her name, I can't
My voice as hoarse as Red's
newly freed from her chains and tunnels.
There's no happy glow up,
no new boobs no nice ass.
Suddenly slim thicc and acne free.
The only glow is the clock above my head
Ticking away the days
the hours, minutes, seconds
before it's me on that autopsy table.
If I'm lucky? Maybe eighty years.
If I'm not? eighty days.
I hear that tick tick tick every day now
The numbers glow in my eyes
I grow and I grow
and so does the size of my casket.
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