Sin is like mold that clings to my innards.
Desperate and mossy, pocked with stench unholy.
But I can't cough it up, it's stuck, stuck within me.
It's struck me down once more, forever more.
I'm tangled up in the mess of me. The mess I've made.
For what seems like eternity...
It sits and it smells.
Like fucking fake roses.
Thick and unclean.
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