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My heart, it cries out,
In agonizing pain,
As it lay faintly beating, 
On the cold dissecting table.
Prodded and Poked,
It knows nothing but pain and scars,
But, though it is my heart that screams for help,
It is my soul that begs for more.
My soul, it lives off of the pain,
Brought by others,
It cries out for more,
Just so it knows what it is like to feel,
To live.
But this, 
This is not really living.
This is the border between life and death.

It is death who beckons me,
With his promises of solitude,
An escape from this opaque nightmare.
While life, she glares and she laughs.
With no end of the pain in sight,
I run toward death,
Oh to be embraced in his arms,
But all effort is futile,
For life has bound my heart with a single thread,
Though small and young,
This thread binds my soul to this earth,
If only for eighteen years.

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