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literature

Strings

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By Ylimegirl   |   Watch
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Published: October 1, 2016
When a devil
And a prostitute
Committed the sin
Generations were cursed

The first with the blood
Appropriately called a witch
Forced to commit sins
Even as she tried to atone

She unwittingly continued
The sinful family
Tainted with the blood
Of the devil

The blood might dilute
But punishment will still come
To all those who have
Even a trace of his blood

After half a millennium
Someone finds the devil
They try to use him but
Nobody survives the process

They find three children
With his blood in their veins
They force them under the needle
And the devil commits another sin

The cycle starts again
His soul split in three
The devil causes nothing
But pain among the siblings

The tears stain their faces
Destroying those around them
The blood mixes and spreads
Even without reproducing

Forced to torture themselves
For his own goals
The children are made
Into monsters

Even when they don't reproduce
Adopted children carry the virus
So at the end of everything
A tainted girl will cry

The devil cares for nobody
As he dismantles the bloodline
Making them into his pawns
For his unknown goals

One day the end will come
The tainted will learn to stand
Maybe one day their ancestor
Can finally be destroyed
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© 2016 - 2019 Ylimegirl
This poem is shorter than I originally imagined it to be.
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I pull a cookbook from its shelf, right next to the ceramic bowls, flip through the batter-stained pages.   His orange and white hairs still cling to my sweatshirt, a touch of blood smeared across the collar.   At last, I find the recipe I was searching for. Peanut butter cookies.  My finger traces down the list of ingredients: two and one fourth cups all-purpose flour, one teaspoon baking soda, two eggs. A rustle comes from the next room over, and I pause—glancing up, past the breakfast bar.   My sister is lying on the den couch, her face to the backrest.   A blanket is s
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Once upon a time, I lost my heart, stolen by a thief who distracted me in the dark with sweet lies and opened buttons. I drifted, insubstantial, until I found my heart again, abandoned beside a country road. I picked it up and put it in my pocket, took it home, washed it gently in warm water and No More Tears shampoo, and put it back where it belonged. It hurt at first, its pounding loud, working furiously to infuse pale limbs with rushing blood, alive, but the pain passed and I smiled in the afternoon sun. Then you came. And my poor heart, pilfered once more, is lost again. But this time, as
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