I heard rumors of you blooming into the tallest tree.
and gave you sunlight from my sin.
You are a product of my effort.
but I know that you're thankful.
grace your ears again...
(what have I become. but a monument to the things that I hate most; the things that I can't stand. what if I would die? Where would I wake up? Wrapped up in your arms? Or still holding your hand?)
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