as i lay on this rug,
with
the softest fibers.
i wonder who's hands made it possible.
so i take a trip without moving a muscle.
look for the woman, so i could thank her.
but as i get close, her house is a hut.
and when it rains, her floors turn to mud.
my voice becomes weak, when i see her teeth.
rotten and brown, and her cracked white lips bleed.
my eyes well up,
with a mettalic taste on my tongue.
she says, "my god. you're not even young".
'just leave. dont thank me for the work ive done.
i've never felt its luxury.'
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