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What is love but a black crow that perches heavily on the frail limb of a dying oak.
Resurrection does not exist in this heart of mine, fly away now before the red storm comes
What is love but the infestation of infatuated termites feeding within this oak home of mine,
I feel their hundred legs crawling beneath my skin. I Pick and Pick till the wine coloured blood oozes out like hot magma from the craters my nails develop–I feel them slowly eat me from the inside
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