it sits on the counter,
so warm and so red,
it sits on the table,
next to the bed,
...
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This again is a sad poem. It is scary and horible, nut paints a clear picture and has been weel written.
I know what kind of pain and fear had to be behind writing a poem like this. I know how this kind of thing feels, and I've had moments where all I can think about is my blood, a longing just to see it. I feel the passion here, no matter how sad it is.