I sliced my wrists open, lengthwise, several inches long. Rather than blood, there are hundreds of pomegranate seeds spilling from my veins. And on the table next to me sits a ruptured pomegranate in a pool of congealing blood. Now to an onlooker, was I originally filled with these seeds of mythological fertility, or did I stuff them inside myself as blood poured freely down my hands?
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