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Slightly self-destructive tendencies
sliding into soliloquy,
softening the sadness
with the pulling of the knife;
the beading of the blood;
the separation of the skin.
There is no love lost
concentrating on the pain,
the undercurrent of beating,
steady rhythm of
life
love
the other miseries of
being
in crimson curtains,
gold satin holding back the flood.