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The razor bites, a lover's parting kiss.
All I see is melody mixed with sugar, and metaphor made of tin cans.
I look at the long scar, a tear's trail across my cheek, intestine pink against the purity of my skin.
I'm tired of being God.
My skin is pale, marred only by the scar.
He stares back at me, the wretched, reflected, naked boy, and he asks me not to kill him. He doesn't beg; his eyes are stony, his face is indifferent. But I feel something press against me like a sudden blast of hot air, like his soul is trying to wrap its arms around me to stop me from picking up the shiny razor on the counter.
like the shear of a shark attack
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