Foible words on the palms of my hands. I can’t dismiss the dissidence that I withstand. All I see that makes me ill, turns inward and make me hate myself. I’m looking for a way out. Help me forget this doubt. Because I once knew a song that made me feel I belonged. If I remember right, I would sing it all night:
“This is the room, the start of it all.
Through childhood, through youth, I remember it all.”
Because there are worse things than distance. My remission: all the nights spent questioning my existence. Can I explain? Would you understand how it feels to love yourself with your right hand knowing it’s the closest you’ll get to bliss and not turning to slit wrists? I detest. There is too much repressed.
I lit 92 candles,
To repent for all I can't handle.
Through the ruins of what’s left inside this chest,
To the pain I can’t sustain from those dejected cum stains.
Fuck this pain.
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