His shard defiled
by the nakedness of his innocence.
Braces weep at the acid bulging
through the exhaust-fumed
strawberry on his tongue.
Brittle bones breathe in purple miasma
on a freezing summer’s day, inducing salty
secretions that numb the sun’s hypothermia.
Ears singe with the sirens’ fucked up screech,
blazing resonantly throughout his scalp's
follicles. He is drowned,
pulled relentlessly until his
lungs sink, shoulder blades bleed,
muscles crack in protest. His lust for purity.
His gluttony for fasting. His greed for world peace.
His strengths melt him into a puddle of indifference,
once stepped in then iced over
to the living undead. And Madea taps
her watch, for she has places to be.
Time is not on her side, but on his.
Once his being is done baking, she moves on to the next.
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