fuck this place and the way it’s been since i came around. fuck the way i used to think of it back when i thought i was far away. i don’t know me. fuck my tendency to keep things inside and let them out at just the wrong time. fuck pretending i hate everyone, till i’m afraid that they won’t stay. it’s hard for me to say what i mean, when your voice is tied to a tree in the woods, i’m spinning and i can’t see anything, and i just want you to call me. i don’t want to be a tiny poem that gives you self confidence. i don’t want to be opened and closed then stored away until you’re hurt more.
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