She staggers up with her hand out, history falling from her mouth like rotten teeth. Scars across her back from self-flagellation. Scars on her knees from kneeling on stones, praying for deliverance. Track marks and cigarette burns make a road map over her body. Savages pass through her, while buildings crumble around them. Her lying skull tilts back with nicotine stained toothy grin, she sways beneath the dying sun, hardly feeling the bitter winter wind. Veins bulge out of her skin; she's got those hard shakes again. A billion abortions and she's still rocking, best in the business, two hundred years and counting. She doesn't feel the beatings and gang rapes anymore. She accepts them with the smile carved into her face. But she's never bent her knee for anyone or anything, even when she was violated, exploited, pimped, and pierced. And she'll never hold us accountable for all the blood on our hands.
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