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Every Empty Vein


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I've stained the sky in a blush of thin blood reminiscent of my insides. Pulling teeth, reflecting blinding light where the innocent reside. My cure could kill me if only I could die. Scraping flesh from bleeding gums, exhausting every empty vein. Swallowing a bitter sleep soaking up a curse of cold. Lost in a flood that will force me into drowning. My cure could kill me if only I could die.


Writer/s: William Putney, Gregory James Thomas, William Paul Rymer, Brendan Joseph Murphy