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out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. iโll meet you there. when the soul in that grass and the world is too full to talk about.
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i would die for you, but i wonโt live for you. i will not stick around to see you love me, but which is why i wonโt stick around to see you mourn me.
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i carried around a stuffed pig in my arms and i did that until i was five. i got it from someone who died of attention and lived an extraordinary life.
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i will keep my distance, romanticize the space between us: in my mind, we are seas apartโโand every stolen glance cast your way is a love letter instead of a yearning for what i cannot ever attain lest i hurt you.
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you up there, with your nice fucking life and your full fucking family and your loving fucking friends, standing on โฆ the pedestal where i put you.
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there i was, cold, isolated and desperate for something i knew i couldn't have. a solution. a remedy. anything ... i hated it. alone and confused was the last place i wanted to be. somehow i knew i deserved this.
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there is a luxury in self-reproach. when we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. it is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.
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