[ID: A drawing of an open ribcage with a poem written in the middle, which reads:
"the vultures won’t eat well that night.
justice.
there’s a warped sense of it
when i wring myself - wry
smile, withhold, control,
rumble-bang on the door,
listen! my leaden lining, with
time, won’t accept nothing
it was never my image, but
my image hurts now - after
punishment for crimes that
hurt nothing, no-one, but i
say, for nights i sway -
i see myself fading away,
see the world in trails,
its entrails and my entrails,
it's what pangs, what pales,
what heaves, what fails,
it's what carrot! what stick!
i’m just making myself
sick."
The drawing is white lines on a black background, and the text is yellow. End ID]
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