Cruel hand, etched in gold upon the lace of my throbbing mess that is the only pitiful excuse I have for a brain.
Violent surge, migrating thousands of grains that ride upon the froth that is the only shameful semblance I have for a core.
Mindless purge, excavating bone-deep throbs of pain submerged in aching scaffolds that are the only tottering structures I have for a home.
Beckoning pit, crying acid-born tears that are lost across endless spaces that are the only thing I have left At all.
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