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Sometimes I wish I didn’t know the things that I do; that I didn’t know her daddy hit her, didn’t hear the whispers of her razor blade.
Sometimes I want to know the pain that she has; when? where are the scars?
Sometimes I look in to her eyes; all I see are the secrets that hide behind them, the shattered windows to a broken soul.
Sometimes I wonder if she’s noticed how broken I’ve become since I’ve known these things; does it hurt her too?





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