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 It is ridged. This structure. Delicate and human it still breaths in its shell. Now smaller and faint, huddled in the furthest reaches of its container it weeps of its memories and raptures at its transcendence. A flower is still a flower. 

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 It is messy, all this debris. But oh how I love it. Parts of wholes that are indistinguishable, meshing together in its new form. Coins from civilizations that are buried in the sands of past destruction. I don’t even want to move around it or clean it. 

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Death shows in the faces of all who see it. Even the slightest pass attracts a film that reflects in fear or complacency. I am sorry you have seen this. I’m sorry that in all likelihood you will see it again. And if we are really fortunate we will see it all together and face the rapture in arms. 

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 Resting bitch. I wake when they rouse me, their entitlement is suppose to tickle me into worship. Do they expect me to bow at their omnipotence? Why would I fall to my knees and fold to you because of a glance or unwarranted solicitation? Do you think the mothers would be proud?

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This body has been mangled and torn from being pressed and pulled from all of the spaces that It has been discarded. 

This is where the earth reclaims me. This is where I leave my body..

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 It feels cold, tingling and numb. The same way it feels every day when I wake up and remember the wars. The knife I keep under my pillow reminds me to pull it together before drawing up its sharpness. It’s tongue quietly speaks to me as it warms in my hand. I clutch it a little tighter and I feel the smoothness of my own blood as I center into the tranquility before the storm.