and all that comes out is cleansing fireMature

I cut into myself but all I find is absence,
all I find are hollows and echoes of old things.
We are craters on this terra, graves and fire pits
and war trenches from battles we already lost.
Do not count all the ways my body has sinned
with your filthy hands held out for confession;
I am a holy void - what goes in is never seen again.

The End

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