They say climb back into Satan’s womb. Feel its warmth, a verdant tomb. These thoughts weigh like stones upon my chest. I’ve had trouble breathing before but this is too much. Those who retreat into its deep embrace become something more than we ever have tried to be. Something born not pure but which watches us bleed. I have plumbed the depths of Romans, of John’s last words on the Lord’s death, but I find no solace; I fear these roots make us one. They will come to see the violence of their decisions as moss fills their mouths and chokes their ignorant throats. Repent! I have stared into the abyss and it will keep staring back. Lost to history, hymns of misery, bear these gifts to me.
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