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Love Gore
Thorns of roses call to me, pricking at my flesh.
They know something that I do not, and yet,
tell me none of it.
Like mages caught within my thoughts,
they undress my hidden wants. How
grave it is to love someone, how disastrous
have I become?
Cheeks are red and wounds are picked,
fresh with sanguine water. Fruitful is
the spring; it makes a harvest out of me.
Embrace whatever is left.
My torso is scabbed and arms have lost their
strength. The remains of my heart are of ash.
Yet stinging pain relieves me as the fondness
strikes a flame.
Oh, how it hurts to burn, and burn only for thee.
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