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The Plan

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I say, “Mother Monster.” You look at me, from deep within the flesh, your hair when you spin like a halo of spikes – I love you so much. You. You, my mother.

“Yes, child?” Your voice. Beautiful and terrible. It makes me weep. It pulls, stupefies. I gaze at you.

“I want to be good. I want to be perfect.” I want to be perfect for you.

You chide. You touch. You carry me.  You seize. I feel joy as your jaws take me. “My child. Do you see all of these, my children? They are perfect. As are you.”