I built a palace from my darkness,
dwelling within it,
sharing secrets with my solitude,
wondering about the wonder of being loved,
and if it was worth demolishing my home to truly feel it.
I patched myself up in the pitch black.
I had been wounded for so long,
smiling as scarlet surrounded me,
until my quiet halls were a whirlpool of blood and bone.
After a while,
there was no pain,
beyond a dull ache,
and a curious itch,
but I couldn't see it,
so I spoke loudly to myself,
insisting that I couldn't feel it,
and the empty walls called back to me,
to tell me that it was true.
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