Your eyes: pieces of empty fire.
A strange fire, one that scours you inside out.
A fire that doesn't burn, but like dry ice, it leaves twisted thin scars, so fine
no one sees them. But they burn. Without end.
A year passes.
The fire grows without control, burns in a rampage, then retreats.
Gaining strength from the distance, from a lack of air,
it comes back a hundredfold to
again burn the scars leaving new ones, deeper and finer
forever.
Destroyed.
By this past year in Hell.
With you.
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