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I lie,
as if my body were about to be lowered.
In a black box made of wood.
I face upward,
with my legs facing north,
and my arms crossed over my chest like whip marks.
The rain slowly paints itself over my skin,
as if I were an artwork in need of sealing.
With each dot of sky,
I could still taste the pepper.
You must leave me,
for I am oil,
and need to rest.
Don't touch me,
or try to understand.
You can when I am dry,
and when I am dry,
you can hang me on your wall,
with nothing other than darkness surrounding me.
Hang me up.
A nail in each hand,
and one through my feet.
Gash out my side with a knife,
and lay a barber wire crown on my head.
For I am eternal,
and you were a lie.
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