August 17, 2011
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She might as well not have skin
I think
as she sits on the end of my bed
bright lights burning
shades closed
windows open
I hate it when she cries
part of me dies
I have the instinct to cover her up
I need to be her skin
when those eyes are pleading
they send my heart into frantic beating
my flesh is cut and bleeding
every time
she never fails to terrify me
to my marrow
she leaves me feeling bone dry
like a desert
war torn
after the storm
when all of the energy
is sucked right out
I figure it all out
for both of us
what life is about
it's all right here
in the exposure of pure emotion
of my closest friend
my closest thing
to what matters.

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