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My flesh will mark where I have been.
Each scar, each brand, each graven line
a map to wind my way amongst the Gods.
My tale shall be told in blood and flesh.
It is what I have to give,
that I might remember
every moment, every ounce of pain, every precious gift.
I shall forget nothing. I shall become memory's master,
through the discipline of the ordeal, the ecstasy of unending puja.
I do not mourn when knife touches flesh,
or whip dances in fiery cadence across my back.
The demands of devotion are more pressing
than my body shall ever be able to contain.
Let the rhythm of ordeal bring expiation
for the constraints of flesh.
I shall rejoice
to see the scars that love has carved upon me.
I must walk carefully in Midgard. It does not hold me now.
In the company of the twice dead, I shall be known by those blazing sigils
truer now than any name.
Amongst the Gods my flesh shall be my calling card.
I shall wear Them upon my skin as a queen might display her jewels.
These calloused lines are more precious. And more binding.
Let any who would know me read
what is written in my flesh for all to see.
Let it not be said that price alone was too dear.
It is a gift of service.
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