Twitching soggy wings floating in fragrant bile like confetti in battery acid.
Legs still kicking from the nerves who have yet to get the depressing message that their services will no longer be required as the factory that was once a living insect has drowned in it's own self debt.
Your face is spilling butterflies after you challenged them to live in your stomach
But no;
They just keep coming back up in nervous defeat, hoping to choke you up one last time.
Your face is spilling little red rivers of varying sizes diluting with the clear streams, desperate for a fluid friend or competitive foe,
But just the like the once graceful flying bug gone zombie of vomit with mixed feelings,
It's crimson for the win.
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