Lazarus Rize




So this is heartache. The fallen rosebud. The single egg, unhatched. Bruised and bated breath.

It is a miscarriage of the most intimate kind. I open to reveal translucent lining-a stream of hope, love, and lust flowing down my legs. The smell of decay makes me weep.

Before you, I questioned whether I could die. I can. Every new day I wake, I die to you.

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