July, July, July.

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I don't know what I'm doing; I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I'm tired of fighting, I'm tired of defending you. You're still my biggest distraction; you break my concentration. Yet if it brings you satisfaction, I feel a sense of elation. I don't know what I'm saying; I have nothing prepared to say. I'm sick of all this lying, I wouldn't trust you any day. I've got to do something about this mess, I've got to end this phase. I'm in complete bittersweetness, and this just goes on for days. I am everything you need, and nothing you want. I will one day cease to bleed; when I die, it's you I'll haunt. I don't understand your stupid game, and I don't like the way you play. You're proving you're the same and you won't change; I can barely stand another day. So tell me where I stand, because I have no clue. Help me understand, it's the least that you can do. I just want you to know that when this s*** is through, I won't be the one to be running after you. I don't know what I'm doing; I don't know what I'm supposed to do. But I'm done with trying, and I'm over defending you.





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