xxi.

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teeth gnashing on
              galaxies,             milky ways trickling down acne scarred chins
                                         (or could they be stars? husks of angels?)
chewing, chewing, chewing, until
the muscles tire, exhaust aching through the
jaw (milky ways now a puddle on the bathroom floor)

          feeling nothing, how could you? (you devoured
                                                                holy creatures, celestial blood runs through
your veins) but still, your brain is pulsing (like boom! boom! boom!) with
the idea of futuristic pain (zinging up your nerves, like hail on frail skin)

you think you feel raw, your body ripped apart from the
                                      inside,
     claws (or were they fingernails?) digging into you,
tearing at that thing that keeps you caged! (is it skin?)
     your lungs are dry, filling with dirt (you can't breathe mortal
air anymore, can you?)

and all that's racing through your brain             are the words of the damned and forsaken,
but now the only clear thoughts that you can        make our between your racing and chasing
mind is "who the hell cares?"
(though was it phrased as a question?)
(you can't remember)

you want to feel alive again, to not have an expanse of
godly beings scraping at your mind, screaming and     shouting,
to not feel like the dirty,
           scraped up husk of a once angelic being

— but you still feel numb numb numb as you stare black holes into bathroom walls

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