prose

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My something better has arrived. Shattering before my eyes, I watch my sickness kill it. I feel it. Breathe it in deep then blow it away. There has to be a better way than this. With my head in my hands, a few knives in my back, and an ache in my soul that is killing. Filling in feeling. Alone at a table somewhere in the center of the universe. Bored and dividing. Cracking at the seams of foolishly healed wounds. And wondering why the pain is what makes life real. Why I would die for a teardrop over a kiss. But I won’t miss this. Won’t miss you not missing me.

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