My trembling fingers with their sharp nails scrape my skull, and slide through the fine, dead-like hair, until they reach the cold, naked desert of my back. My two fragile arms cover my frigid skin, up to my ears, which sink, slowly, down my throat, in silence. But my chest beats, beats, and makes me think its echo will cease to exist.
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Cysper04
Hm..... Nice poem, Jorge. :)