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Fugitive of a Bloodletting.

Run
like the wind
now

towards the night
at the end of this expanse
as I pick scabs
all day, fall

into the pools
rich in anima, deep crimson:
fluid essence to drink,
only to throw it up,
out to you,

reasonably raw.
So sore
and sensitive,
oh: I am. 

Me? Fuck me.
How do you feel… ?

What did the psychedelic
properties
of our blood reveal?

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