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Bled into the swollen night. An exit wound nova against the black nest, composed of writhing limbs. An ethereal crop of sores in fields of crawling skin. Picked clean only to be reborn. There, leeched of my pride, I could have nourished the earth. Rooting deep within the ash. Planting seeds. Everything was as it was supposed to be. Blooming with slurry and bruised purity. Like an old stone weathering dull. Those scraping fangs wore shallow, tilling furrows in my skull. Those gnashing gears spat satellites of choking mold and took my breath. But I remember a time. I could lose myself in the contours of the wreckage. When I smelled the flowers, the stench drowned my soul. My tongue traced the wind, which dried it up, speaking dust. I drank the water and purged naught but bile. When I shed my skin, there was nothing left.
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