Slaughterhouse 

by living-glass

my memories are lined up in a single, straight row, the culling begins —

fragments of my life, which were once stitched seamlessly along the borders of my joints, now tearing themselves apart.

they are biting six inches down the nerves of my flesh, the exacting and excruciating process, a feeling of torment that i live for.

one by one they come, one by one they go; one by one they shrieked red, one by one they retired grey; 

the culling has ended, my new life ashore, my new soul seasoned;

who am i, who am i, i love the raw.  

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