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September 10, 2011
There are sharp edges to you some days. Knife edges. Blade edges. Shattered, broken, rusted edges. You cut those around you and slip on their blood. It stains your feet; not red, but black as a weeping wound. Infecting. Festering.

You are blunt sometimes, pushing others back with the force of your metal walls. Cold walls. Walls that bite their fingers with frost when they try to touch you. Walls that rise up and up and up into the very heavens, surrounded by the broken-necked bodies of birds and angels.

You can be soft too. You can be warm.