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An Autopsy

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It's been ten years since the fire went down
and left an ashy trail.

Eight since it flared in the heart of him.

Five since its final sigh.

He's spent the past four kissing painted lips, slick and ink-sharp masks,
and pressing poison fingertips into alabaster flesh.

Unresponsive, he lies
heart of granite open to the cold air.
Marbled eyes regarding a world
sterilized.

And without his ice cold pseudo-fire to warm him,
he has simply

: Gone Out.





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