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Created on: March 08, 2009
Drip. Drip.
The narrow river flows with your blood.
Sweeping, tugging.
rushing through your heart.
Feeding you, flourishing
before making an exit
through the fiery slit
in your neck.
Blood isn't permanent.
But the stains are.
and not even Clorox
can erase the imprint
of my blood painted hand
on your egotistical image.
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