I have the taste of salt in my mouth from the tears that have etched my face like rain on a gravestone. The face in the gravestone shaped mirror shaving the stubble off watching the trenches forming off the eyes that only want to cry the despair of the end and the hope of the beginning and the razor cut too deep. I have the taste of blood in my mouth from my mistake of despairing hope.
Reason for writing:
Because I wake up every day.
Birth sign: Not entered
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