leather
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You can’t play footsies with
combat boots
Thick like your thighs
Heavy like your body
At about a certain age,
Probably around eight years old,
Almost every boy will want their own wallet.
Not much thought goes into it,
Not until the arrival at the store,
Bound up in leather, like the books
And held by paper chains
A heart no longer functioning
Inside, no soul remains
They put a hat upon her head, pulled low
To hide the brand