I crack metal knuckles that clink like warning windchimes. I exhale a sigh of memories and absently tongue razorblade canines. I shoo away artificial marigolds from crack and crevice, here in my custom church. Each tiny new flower seeks to draw out my venom.
There is no dilution of absolution, here.
Worship is done with flagellation of passion and frenzy of fixation. Even in silence, the mind reminds us of the price I must pay on the daily.
The cost of my cherishing: Firm but fair.
8:57 p.m. - 2015-03-16
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