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Skeleton on the outside looking in. Finger painting has turned underneath the skin. My eyes roll back. All I see are the things that shaped me. All the horrible things that I’ve done, their weight nearly crushed me. I was part of the misguided, the hopeless, the wandering lost souls. So I split myself in half to see if I was rotten, raked myself over Hell’s coals, stirred up the deep, dark things that were forgotten. I realized you have to be very careful on how you bury things. They may come back to haunt you. You might not want them but they’ll want you. They’ll claw themselves to the surface to Live Again. If they don’t have a proper funeral they’ll be at your door and you’ll have no choice but to let them in.
Can you dissect yourself and still live?
Can you throw away everything and still give?
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