A heavy mass that hangs upon my bones
Subtraction helps me gain, but not in that physical sense.
Handfuls, armfuls, ugly things.
My bones would like to shine, gleaming white, sharply contrasting the gray of my teeth. They grit and they grind, resisting temptation. Weary soldiers guarding the winding path of my demise. I train them to open only for what must come out, blocking that which shan't come in.
While it all comes up, I know I'm going down. The irony makes me smile. My bones smile as well, for they have finally won the war. Their victory is sly, cheapened by cheating, but a victory all the same.
I've never been one to play fair, after all.
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