You believe we are bodies and memories. there's no "lost". You want to leave the picture blank, take the details out, tear the page from the book. Drop the pencil to the floor where I won't ever pick it up. For the best because you can't seem to get it off your chest, so I'll cling to the walls in the hopes of finding anything resembling myself from your own list of everything. I hang from my hopes and wait for you to say: "what about bodies?" "what about hearts?" "what about us?". You wake up whole, you're shown and told, you know who you are. You're taught everything there is to know, there are no more questions now. So you won't be deceived, and you won't fall prey to the trickery that we are. "Who's really going to miss me?" I say as the pen leaves the paper. As the pages are shred and strewn across the floor, they all fall to spell "who will?". I had a chance to be heard and you had a plan to get even. How do you live with yourself? How could you live with yourself?
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