With Blood
a pact of silence is set,
my own. I am not
worthy of tongue touching thought. Too blackened,
my insided have boiled themselves bast basic
bile. An attempt at absolution,
failed. Memories playing like horror
movie trailers, continue to push through the residual
rubble, stacks of steaming silt smolders, refusing
to be cleansed. Their stain festers still,
in every crevice. Calmly consuming recovery's
warriros: sorry, regret, remorse.
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