White. No sugar.

No steps touch the earth,
No stones are turned.
At the early hours of the morning,
Death gently wakes me up to get ready.
Her fingers leave a burnt mark on my skin.
My world brushes its perfect teeth.
Above the bed, a pair of huge bright lanterns: my squinted eyes scrutinise the horizon.
Hm, the desert looks the same today, I think, as I swallow a full cup of cement.

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