The "spotless" soul is a serrated thing,
A hollow hoop where no birds sing.
You traded the pulse for a porcelain lie,
And blinded the sun with a "perfect" eye.
That grace you craved? It’s a jagged shard,
A splintered ghost in a prison yard.
You thrust the thorn to "fix" the flaw,
And replaced the heart with a cold, white law.
There is no excellence in the ache,
No mercy found at the burning stake.
Your "purity" is a needle’s bite—
A venomous, pale, and piercing white.
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