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The Race
Dark halls are empty,
Floors sit still.
A scalpel slices my skin.
My pressure drops, as the nurse trembles.
I lay open on the table,
Full of organs, but completely empty of feeling.
The surgeon places the clamps.
My heart stops, as I think of you.
The paddles jump to make a beat.
More doctors scrub in,
Trying to fix wounded parts of my soul that you broke.
Time of death,
20:16.
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