of my own.

by Claire Liebenberg
(Scotland)

my eyes can see, only of the night.
only what he of evil wishes to bear upon them.
my skin, no longer able to feel a soft gentle touch or the wind blow against me. my heart, ripped from me, dragged to my inner depth of hell, maybe this is better, better to not feel, better to not see, better to not love, for I am an immortal, for I am death itself.

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