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I will never die. I will never die. I will never die.
When you touch me, touch heaven.
Sweet home, prison; sweet hell.
Moses will never look me in the eye,
he says he will but I have witnessed his Torah;
hundreds of pages dedicated to you—or was that mine?
Better men have gone through more.
I was born with a butcher’s knife in my left,
and a kiss mark from God on my right.
Come, watch me bleed out like this as I
go under the scalpel in the austere house of the Lord.
Cold, disgusting place; yours. (there are worse places to die.)
We observe my wounds with some sick satisfaction.
Is this for the best? Was this for the best? Was? Is?
What can be for the best when you are born,
destined to be a clinical trial subject?