The open door is cactus. Needles. Frantic boners. Adulthood in its half-open robe. You try. You ignore. Draw pictures. Lisa Frank’s neon unicorns. Rainbow pegasus wings-up in interstellar space. No bridles. No blinders.
Horse mouth froth collects at corners like socks so you kick your tiny stable. Poke your head out into starlight echoes that radiate yellow. Orion gets his belt so you fall back, sprawl across your bedroom floor willing
the sky to erupt hot-hearted punk purple horses on fire. They’re going to change everything.
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