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I’m shaking and so are my hands and I can’t tell if it’s the cold or if I’m finally feeling regret. A martyr in my own mind and a pariah given the capacity of my own guilt. Do I fight the fact that I am a nervous wreck or do I face the forthcoming collision head on? I
don’t know how to abandon my blind heart… and I’m convinced that you deserve this. My organs are dark and minuscule in comparison to yours. I’m no longer pining to cure my disease, I’m just dying to advance the process. Trim your wings and deceive me, cinch your halo
around my neck because death houses such beauty if we can enjoy what will grow in it’s absence. We are thin and wasted at both ends and we’ve accepted our position. I was never worthy of following your footsteps. So be sure to leave no evidence that you’ve existed. We
dare not turn and face the figures treating us to our descent. If we knew their origin then we’d surely be disgusted. This is the kind of illness that leaves us rotting from the inside out… and we wear this on our sleeves. Content with our casualty. I would do this all
over again. I’m the catalyst of our collapse, haunted by conviction and a partner to the pain. Forgive me for who I’ve become these past few years. Forgive me for allowing my love to disappear. Trim your wings and deceive me, cinch your halo around my neck, and just
leave me alone with my thoughts. Eaten alive until there’s nothing left to mourn. I will resonate through the minds of others as a corpse and nothing more.

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