Piece by piece, I tore myself, tore at myself. Warm sugary-smelling blood burned these feet that walked to betrayal. There was no pain. Underneath, the muscle and bone and sinew was ready to die. Ready to resurrect.

What am I? Who am I?

Deeper, the marrow tainted black and ashen yet glowing: not half bad, not half tainted. Just just. I stood unsheathed, naked and ugly. We are all like this, under the shiny things.

How do you cut open the spirit?

Your innards may lay gazing at the sky and you remain no closer to the truth. What lies inside, stays inside, even when your thoughts (or not) are seen through your affections, affectations.

What are YOU?

Irks and loves, pains and pleasures, nonchalances and obsessions. Silly adjectives that purport to mask (or unmask) a man.


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