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i crave the sickness
that has afflicted you
for so long, this
plague you’ve lived
with since my
fingertips first touched
yours, and

i’ll never learn the
meanings behind the
songs you sing to me,
voice weary and
cracked with irony

sometimes i wish
you were a butterfly
on my arm, so i
could rip, crush,

smash your wings
to bits.




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