Writing on Sidechat | Butterflies from Hell Her wings are made of fire. Her eyes say something dire. And when our bodies touch and meet, there ever grows a startling heat that smoulders in my bones for hours like iron butterflies in my bowels.

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Butterflies from Hell Her wings are made of fire. Her eyes say something dire. And when our bodies touch and meet, there ever grows a startling heat that smoulders in my bones for hours like iron butterflies in my bowels.

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