His(s)
His(s) sad stories
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whineycoyote
whineycoyote Wine and dine? Whine and die.
Autoplay OFF   •   2 years ago
In which a looming sense of dread becomes the sickening arrival of Death.

His(s)

Do not touch me,

For Death already has.

Cold fingers up neck

Icicles hanging from the notches of my spine

I watched him take you.

A wounded animal,

I curl in corners and alleyways,

Nursing my wounds.

Isolated, I scream.

Lungs burning in place of my eyes,

Comfort is nothing.

Do not touch me,

For Death shall soon.

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