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Aug 2015
It pours in; in words, sliding under glass. Two headed vipers pinch the corners and pull. The cut widens. I am fierce and force and fire. Salt pours in as blood pours out. Memories so black and stale hang in my mind to haunt and to taunt.
I wash the window red. To look outside but all is dead. The salt makes mummies of us all.
This poem isn't about self harm. But rather self spite and regret.
Written by
Crucifix
440
   Arlo Disarray
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