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I am bleeding out and dizzy. Although this is of my own desire, I still feel that pang of fear and regret. I lift a hand in front of my wandering eyes, not my own, as my body no longer belongs to me. I drag the other hand from its idle position and mimic a praying motion. They call out to me. The angels want me home. I have never been a religious type, nor the one to even consider the existence of Them. They are holy and divine and warm though, They are God. God is me and you and the thousand watchers beyond the edge of your vision. I slowly, lazily drag the razor into my skin, harder, putting so much pressure that my fingers shake. I have never been the type to cry when content, or cry at all but gold ichor drips from my eyes like shiny tears at the thought of Them.
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