Perhaps another tomorrow, then, huh?

I come back with the tide, mud in my belly and bulging eyes.

You walk past and the blood shoots out of the rotting heart,

black blood; dragging my face through the drying sand

i catch up, and you gather my limbs and stick them back,

carry me gently to edge of the mud; pour me out.

.

This resurrection has turned obscene

Perhaps tomorrow the wave will forget

an eye, or perhaps my entire head.

Satanic Jesus, let me die!

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