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- I’m sick with regret, hatred, and confusion.
- I’m vomiting shards of broken glass from all of the cracked reflections
- I’ve tried to swallow over the years.
- I’ve slit my wrists again in hopes of bleeding some form of tortured genius,
- but nothing but the slow, gelatinous flow of vitality seeps from these gashes.
- A dried well. An expired artist. A worthless wound.
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