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The fact

I carry a weight upon my chest, directly above my blood red, beating pulse.
In this there is a weight so heavy yet so vacuous; the emptiness eats me alive
I carry the new generation of pain
I am telling you this is why my heart retains its passion, its demands
This is not an excuse for the distance I have caused you, the lack of communication, and the lack of love
But a fact of my foreclosure to the house I call my heart
I am telling you, that weight is crushing me
I am asking you to believe me
Please, believe me

I cannot stand nor touch anything loved, as if I’m allergic to the feeling
I hold close negativity (as if my comfort), stretching my arms out catching all my anger easily
Never letting it slip through the palms of my hands
I wish more than anything for my fingers to spilt apart
I am telling you
My fingers would drip a puddle of anger on which I could step on, on which I could finally crush
But what If this puddle isn’t as shallow as I thought it would be?
What if this anger drowns me?
I hope you will be there to save me
Please, be there to save me

I have this Gestapo of lies I put against myself
It’s as equal, yet as unfair as it sounds
It’s now the death match
I beg for them both to loose
For them to fall
For them to fail
Even worse awaiting them is the truth
Waiting to crush them both, in the most elegantly disheveled manner
We both knew the truth would be the death of me
I felt this day coming for years, you knew when it arrived
Help me last longer
Please, don’t tell me the truth

I ask of you, am I this nothing, this nothing consumed by things I won’t let myself receive?



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