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The Blade
The blade seems to take away all the pain.
Sharp and shiny; I agonize over the outcome.
Frigid on my fragile skin; the blade goes to work.
How must I live when I am already dead?
I have no guilt, only gore.
No aid, but only affliction.
I am sore with no sorrow.
Beaten by the blade, I am.
My wrist is red, yet still no remorse.
Barely berthing while throbbing.
Left there to lie; the blade is soaked.
The pain is leaving, and I... I am the pain.

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