If it is not written down, it is forgotten.
You are the only thought that arrives when I try to think of something meaningful.
The hole that bleeds silently while I live quietly shouts when I am still. And the transparent blood drips down neck, over my shoulders, onto my chest, and into the heart from which it was pumped. But for some reason, seas of circulating cells only make me wonder what it would be like to have less. But I only wonder when I get like this, when I sit and listen to the subtle screaming of my soul.
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