He smells like wine made of roses

It’s disgusting 

I ran at him 

As if he was one of those springed floors

At my old gymnastics club

​

He was very much made of concrete

Perhaps something stronger

I broke my arm

And some other things

And I’m lying on my back

Waiting for a hand to pull me up

But the only hand that will is mine

And it’s hanging from my broken arm

​

If anyone gets this message 

Can you send help?

​

At least I can see the sky from here 

I wish it wasn’t raining though

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