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A broken mirror shows what used to be.
But only now she remains.
She who has no heart.
She who feels no love.
The she that has the unquenchable lust for more.
More, then more.
But what is it that she truly seeks?

Love? Not love. Love does not bare her name.
Pain? Not pain. Pain does not spare her its mercy.
Envy? Not even envy gazes upon her form.
Then would it be hate? Hate passes no judgment.

More, then more. She craves it all.
More than more. She feeds her undying thirst.

She fills her glass with the mixture.
Love, Pain, Envy, and Hate.
Mixed, not blended. Then stirred.
With a dry taste, she swallows it back.
The mix washes away the hint of regret on her tongue.

This is the she that does not lick her wounds.
She lets them bleed.
The she that stabbed her mother soon after her own birth.
She twisted the knife.
The she that cries no tears.
She sheds nothing, only overlaps the layers.
Layer, then layer.
More, then more.

The shattered mirror cuts her fingers.
No blood. No tears. No feeling. Numb.
She only bleeds the mixture of her own concoction.
Love, Pain, Envy, and Hate.

She drinks up.
After all, it is Happy Hour.





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