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One With Ice.

Crawling under thin skin.
Quivering.
The soul is itching.

Inner glow, colors
and consequences.
Wounds expose
a grotesque creature
concealed beneath.

What?
Not what you expected
to find
hiding deep inside?

Cry. Cry
me a fucking river,
baby, maybe
shake it off with a shiver
inspired from the frigid breeze
life never
stops delivering

until you are one
with the ice.

So desensitized
to the horror.
Distance the body of the beast
a bit further from the polished
ice, the mirror
so that he might see
himself a bit clearer.

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