each small, cold-controlled
backwards push:
a minute death,
a sinking further inwards.
I could wear these partings
as accomplishments--
a frozen star, each
an adornment upon
a void of cold Hell, each
event a singularity, a lifeless jewel.
The ache hasn't come unburied yet.
Always there-- slumbering or awake, self-aware--
I know it is about to start.
I know where it will leave me--
I have known where I was going all along.
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