i do not hold these words to be true;
they singe my finger tips.
i drop them, leaving them forgotten on the floor until,
piled up, they bulge out of any crack ready to snap and
let loose the flood.
don't mind this blood
dripping from my melting hands onto the frigid kitchen floor.
this is the end,
there is nothing anymore.
while my veins drain out,
the violin swells, playing out life's magnificent score.
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