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1.6k · Aug 2014
Thoughtlessly irresponsibly
Clindballe Aug 2014
Thoughtlessly people lead to
dead kittens
Irresponsibly people lead to
dead children
think and take responsibility
otherwise
we'll end up with nothing
but
dead kittens and children
Written: August 30. - 2014
1.6k · May 2014
My matchstick
Clindballe May 2014
I found a matchstick
lit it
then threw it away.
Written: May 23. - 2014
1.6k · Aug 2014
Words
Clindballe Aug 2014
The words are all in your head
The words you always read
The words you never said
But you are dead
So the words fled
Written: August 25. - 2014
1.6k · Sep 2014
His voice
Clindballe Sep 2014
It was not what he had said
that hurt the most
but that he had said it.
He broke my heart
with his voice.
But that is alright
because words will heal my heart
like his voice never existed.
*I will forget his voice
but not his words.
Written: September 18. - 2014
1.5k · Apr 2014
The line is drawn.
Clindballe Apr 2014
People have boundaries. Boundaries that must be respected. We draw a line. We tell people to stop and push them away. But they don't listen. Only because they find it funny to push boundaries. To make others feel sick so that they feel better.

What a messed up world we live in.
Written: April 29 - 2014
1.5k · Jun 2014
Cutting
Clindballe Jun 2014
Making mental pain physical. Creating weapons to hurt yourself. Hiding them everywhere in your room and when everything is boiling and you relapse, your deadly friend is there for you. Thoughts are running through your head. The urge to do it knowing you'll feel guilty about it later. Feeling in control over the situation. You know this pain and you bear it. But the one inside your head is just too much. As you drag the cold steel through your soft peach skin you try to focus on one thing.
Pain.
You have to resist the urge and believe.
Believe that you are better than a cold steel blade and a warm relief.
Written: June 23. - 2014
1.5k · Feb 2017
An ocean of depression
Clindballe Feb 2017
A wave of people who all suffer from depression's undercurrent leans over me until gravity pushes the water over my head and I drown in the depressive maelstrom of lost, distraught family members with the same weak psyche which I suffer from. Only the dollhouse owners can live a picture-perfect life where everything is antibacterial and anti-depressant while we get jammed between the walls until we can no longer scream for help and tears become our only weapon. The moisture from the rivers that sourced in our eyes penetrates into the walls and seeps into the floor, then mold and mildew infects this otherwise perfect dollhouse. I'd rather drown in depression than live in this false cardboard house with drawers and cabins filled with pills and where no one knows who takes what and why there is constantly bought more and more even when the pills tumble out of all the doors. I'm waiting for a tsunami, which can split the dollhouse that I call my home, hoping the walls detaches and the pills flush away.
Written: november 30. - 2016
1.5k · Jun 2014
Perfect illusion
Clindballe Jun 2014
Someone to make every wreckage on our damaged souls insignificant.
A mind of sanity and imagination. Eyes of the innocent. Mouth and ears that knows truth from false. A love so stunning and pleasant that it's
*unachievable.
Written: June 2. - 2014
1.5k · Sep 2014
We love you
Clindballe Sep 2014
We love you* they said
I believed them as any other child would.
they had to love me.
so I left them with no other choice
than to hate me.
to leave them with eyes
drowning in an ocean of misunderstandings
trying to make sense of things.
make sense of me.
with hard times comes a hard hand.
or so it was for me.
not for them.
they did not know me.
they do not know me.
so I get a hard hand.
followed by a we love you.
Leaving my eyes
drowning in an ocean of misunderstandings.
*I love you too
Written: September 17. -2014
Clindballe Aug 2014
I got lost in you like I do with books.
Forgot about my surroundings.
About the hurtful endings.
A real life horror story.
With no big glory.
Just great pain.
How lame.
Written: August 20. - 2014
1.4k · Nov 2014
A lack of you
Clindballe Nov 2014
A lack of concentration is all i need
or all i have
it doesn't really matter
because either way i can't focus
I need to
do my homework
clean my room
walk the dog
take a shower
and tons of other stuff
and I can't help but
think of everything
that doesn't matter like
you
you were all I needed
or all I had
it doesn't really matter
because either way I can't have you
Written: November 2. - 2014
1.4k · May 2014
Forever
Clindballe May 2014
We were supposed to be together. Forever.
We are supposed to be together. Forever.
We were supposed to be over. Forever.
We are supposed to be over. **Forever.
Written: May 20. 2014
1.4k · Sep 2014
He is the only one I notice
Clindballe Sep 2014
The way he looked back at me
pretending he was paying attention to his friends
when we both knew he was not.
His blue eyes staring back at me
while I was trying to ignore the fact that
my heart started to beat out my chest.
It was like my hole body got filled with butterflies.
Everyone else seemed to disapear
until he looked away and I remembered
I am not the only he notice.
Written: September 26. - 2014
1.3k · Feb 2016
Night vision
Clindballe Feb 2016
I open the night with a cigarette.
The only thing throwing light on my face in the dark, falls like stars on the broken, walked tiling along blind alleys.
My kiss with the cigarette is more intimate than with his lips, more affectionate towards my inner than his touch.
If the sidewalk was a metaphor it would indicate my thoughts spoiled walk.
In the darkness I find peace in the chaos we created.
I become a chain smoker when he infiltrates my night vision and I forget where I am walking.
The only road home is through ash clouds searching for the light at the end of the tunnel.
Written: February 13. - 2015

Dansk:
Nattesyn
Jeg åbner aftenen med en smøg. Det eneste der belyser mit ansigt i mørket, falder som stjerner på de knuste, begåede fliser langs blindeveje. Mit kys med smøgen er mere intimt end med hans læber, mere kærligt mod mit indre end hans berøring. Hvis fortovet var en metafor ville det betegne mine tankers spolerede gang. I mørket finder jeg roen i det kaos vi skabte. Jeg bliver kæderyger når han infiltrer mit nattesyn og jeg glemmer hvor jeg går. Den eneste vej hjem er gennem askeskyer, i søgen efter lyset for enden af tunnelen.
Clindballe Feb 2017
My mother works as florist, she cuts and arranges flowers in order to make it pretty. Even though my mother works at home she never has time to sit down. She is always in a hurry and never has time to worry. My mother has a mentally sick family, it runs in the blood but skipped her generation and found its way to her children's brains. The sickness came as a lightning from a thunderstorm - totally expected. Yet, my mother never saw it coming because she never had time to sit down and listen to the thunder roaring, she just turn up the volume on the radio, which only played happy songs about love and flowers. Inside the house the flowers wither from all the depressed children compressing the air till there is nothing left. Everyone sits at the dinner table gasping for air while fighting for the attention of an uncaring florist. She never sees the pain in her children's eyes or how their always wear long sleeves even when the flowers are blooming outside. My mothers children never felt pretty nor good enough so they started cutting their own skin.
Written: February 9. - 2017
1.3k · May 2014
Haiku
Clindballe May 2014
Jumping in the water -
Splash
I'm drowning.
Written: May 22. - 2014
1.2k · May 2014
Pouring rain
Clindballe May 2014
I would paint you a picture of us standing there in the pouring rain. You with your blue jeans and checkered shirt smiling while holding me close and telling me that you won't let go.

*If only I could paint.
Written: May 1. - 2014
1.2k · Apr 2014
Languages
Clindballe Apr 2014
You don't need to speak the same language to understand when someone is happy, sad or in love. You can see it in their *eyes.
Written: April 30 - 2014
1.2k · Oct 2014
Her voice is a demon
Clindballe Oct 2014
Her voice is a demon
I search for it in hell.

I fight the wrong demons
As she destroys my mind.

I take control of it
Before she controls me.

Her voice is in my deepest memories.
I try to forget her only to remember.

Her voice is a demon
I still search for it in hell.
Written: October 2. - 2014
Clindballe Nov 2014
my heart most be living under water
because I feel like I am
drowning.
Written: November 29. - 2014
1.2k · Mar 2015
Be free
Clindballe Mar 2015
Don't be falling angels
But flying human beings
Let's collide in the sky
And never die
Just let us be
Free
Written: March 2. - 2015
Clindballe Dec 2016
I am daydreaming about making a difference in this corrupt, broken world but all I can do is to solve tasks that have already been answered. Second after second, year after year, I sit behind bricks in a ramshackle school where everyone are as prisoners in an alternative prison, where the years disappear in meaninglessness. Let me knock down walls and build them again, help the world instead of sitting as a product on a conveyor belt in the middle of a mass production of individuals that have solved the same tasks with the same answers, behind the same wall, at the same table, just to be able to put a way too expensive student cap on ones head and to call oneself a student. But what does it actually mean to be a student? Are you not just another number in the row, yet a grade point average, another helpless individual who can only solve problems where the answer already exists in a rule book. Let me knock down the world and build a new one, where mass production of students does not take place, but where anyone can build a future of new ideas and not only find errors on the old. But before I'm done daydreaming, tens of thousands of old assignments end op on the table, and I must sit on the chair a little longer as the conveyor belt keeps on going.
Written 30. October - 2016

Dansk version:

Jeg sidder og dagdrømmer om at gøre en forskel i denne korrupte, ødelagte verden men alt jeg kan gøre at løse opgaver som allerede er besvaret. Sekund efter sekund, år efter år sidder jeg bag mursten i en faldefærdig skole hvor alle er som fanger i et alternativt fængsel, hvor årene forsvinder i meningsløsheden. Lad mig vælte væggene og bygge dem om, hjælpe verden i stedet for at sidde som et produkt på et rullebånd midt i en masseproduktion af individer som har løst de samme opgaver med de samme svar bag den samme væg ved det samme bord på den samme stol, blot for at kunne sætte en alt for dyr hue på hovedet og kalde sig student. Men hvad betyder det egentligt at være student? Er man ikke bare endnu et tal rækken, endnu et karaktergennemsnit, endnu et hjælpeløst individ som kun kan løse opgaver hvor svaret allerede findes i en facitliste. Lad mig vælte verden og bygge en ny, hvor masseproduktion af stundenter ikke finder sted, men hvor alle kan bygge en fremtid af nye ideer, og ikke blot finde fejl på de gamle. Men inden jeg er færdig med at dagdrømme ender der titusinde gamle opgaver på bordet, og jeg må blive siddende i stolen lidt længere mens rullebåndet kører videre.
1.2k · May 2015
I forget
Clindballe May 2015
I forget how to hold back the tears from burning in daylight. They only know darkness where they are as free as a bird can be when it is locked in a cage filled with hunters trying to tear off every feather one by one only to leave it tortured and afraid on the floor.

I forget how to breathe so I throw my heart out the window from 6th floor trying to make it catch its breath and fly away like a bird but it always ends up where it started. I sometimes forget that I am not free.
Written: February 24. - 2015
1.1k · Jan 2015
blot en billig kopi
Clindballe Jan 2015
jeg ser min reflektion i dig
så jeg gemmer dig i min hud
tegner skitser på papir til mine
tårer løber om kap med regnen
intet er godt nok lige meget hvad
jeg ser dig
du er overalt som duerne på gaden
dine baskende vinger skræmmer mig
for du kommer ingen vegne uden dig selv
men du bliver aldrig dig selv blot en billig kopi.
Skrevet: 19. Januar - 2015
1.1k · Oct 2014
Ashes and empty bottles
Clindballe Oct 2014
The happiness left like the smoke from her lungs and vanished in the air. The only thing she could feel was her insides burning, as if she has never burned before. But her heart had been on fire more times than she could count. Even with fire-alarms ringing she did not stop, and at night when her eyes were drowning, she would empty more bottles than she could count. She would drink until liquor started pouring from her eyes. She left a trail of ashes and empty bottles, leading to her newfound happiness, only to never be found.

*When it was too late she wanted to be a mathematician.
Written: October 26. - 2014
1.1k · Jul 2015
Danmark
Clindballe Jul 2015
Landet hvor hver tiende borger sluger piller
for at få dagene til at hænge sammen
hvor farver rød, gul og grøn ikke
længere betyder kærlighed, lykke og håb
men er farverne på piller mod
depression, søvnløshed og angst
alligevel er vi for stolte til at indrømme
at kendte og fremmede ansigter drukner
i regnbuepiller og titusinde bivirkninger
Skrevet: 15. Juli - 2015

Translation:
Denmark
The country where every tenth citizen
swallows pills to make the days stick together
where the colors red, yellow and green
do not mean love, happiness and hope
but are the colors of pills for
depression, insomnia and anxiety
still we are too proud to admit that
familiar and unfamiliar faces are drowning
in rainbow-pills and ten thousand side effects
1.1k · Feb 2015
deep blue eyes
Clindballe Feb 2015
your metal armor has rusted
fallen apart
like it had never existed
your deep blue eyes
are dried out in the distant
like they never have drowned
your palms are closed
like they have never been open
your words have vanished
like they were never spoken
Written: February 1. - 2015
1.1k · Aug 2015
Komedie vs tragedie
Clindballe Aug 2015
I Homers Odyssé skrives en tragedie
som en komedie
i sorg søger vi jo glæde
jeg ønsker ikke at fremvise ængstelige optrædener
at gemme mine sorger bag lyksalige ord for evigt
sceneskrækken holder mig ude af rampelyset
og angsten holder mig ude af mig selv
andres polerede selvsikre personligheder
filer min til roden
komiker bliver jeg nok aldrig
men måske en glemt tragedie
Written: 28. August - 2015

Translation:

Comedy vs tragedy
In Homer's Odyssey a tragedy is written
as a comedy
in sorrow, we seek the joy
I do not want to show anxious performances
or to hide my sorrows behind blissful words forever
stage fright keeps me out of the limelight
and anxiety keeps me out of myself
others polished self-confident personalities
files mine to the root
comedian, I'll probably never be
but perhaps a forgotten tragedy
1.0k · Jun 2014
Yourself
Clindballe Jun 2014
It's easy to loose yourself but hard to find yourself and even harder to find yourself right after loosing yourself.
Written: July 1. - 2014
1.0k · May 2015
Open heart surgery
Clindballe May 2015
My chest is like an open heart surgery where everyone that goes by just takes a piece like it's a ******* drive-thru with free taxes. It's not on the house when there is no home. My parents didn't raise me to give to the homeless so I guess karma is a ***** after all. I am still waiting for people to return the pieces for recycling so I can stitch myself back together. But I guess I will always have holes in my chest because you died with pieces of me.
Written: May 12 - 2015
1.0k · Jul 2014
Music
Clindballe Jul 2014
Music is my drug. A dangerous yet healing addiction. It distracts me from reality and takes away the pain. But with never ending pain the music stays forever. Lyrics is the only thing on my mind. Lyrics speaking truth and false. Anxiety and panic rages when it stops and everything goes silence. There's no golden silence as my head quietly explodes from the reality I'm living.
Written: July 24. - 2014
998 · Aug 2014
But
Clindballe Aug 2014
But
I turned right but ended up on the left.
I am alive but dead inside.
I looked at you but saw someone else.
I loved you but I hate you.
I called you but you did not answer.
I felt happy but I am sad.
I thought I was found but I am lost.
I was whole but I am broken.
I acted like an angel but ended up as a devil.
Written: August 27. - 2014
992 · Sep 2014
The sun and the moon
Clindballe Sep 2014
The sun rises as the moon goes down.
Never do they meet.
They always run away
from one another.
Until that perfect moment
where they eclipse
and become as one.
Though it is only temporary
they keep chasing
till they get their infinity
where two become one.

*I hope we'll meet like an eclipse
Written: September 24. - 2014
981 · Jun 2014
Dead or alive
Clindballe Jun 2014
I look in the mirror and see another person staring back. Pale skin and dark eyes keeping too many secrets. Questioning rather there really is another person or I'm going insane. Who am I, who's the person inside me. Am I dead or alive.
Written: June 20. - 2014
953 · Jun 2016
Speak up
Clindballe Jun 2016
My father taught to live by the rule 'do not speak unless spoken to'. But do not mistake my silence for a yes. Just because I never said stop did not mean i wanted you on top. I was frozen like the lake I wanted to drown in, stuck in a crashing airplane with no oxygen.

My father taught me that rapists lure in the dark, so do not go outside after sundown he said. But I always walk in the dark where no shadows are to be seen. There are no rapists where I walk, only at the places where I stay the night.

Go practice saying no in mirror in case you will ever meet a ****** or you can never look at yourself without seeing the handprints of your ****** all over your body. The ****** will leave internal scars and stain your eyes but nonetheless make you want to die.
Written: June 4. - 2016
950 · Jun 2014
Last goodbye
Clindballe Jun 2014
With red eyes and tears running down my face you hugged me for the last time. Your eyes told me nothing but your hug told me everything. You hugged me so tight, I thought you'd never let go. But you did.
*Goodbye.
Written: June 29. - 2014
939 · Jun 2014
The other side
Clindballe Jun 2014
I'm walking in a field with green grass and pretty white flowers. The air is fresh and a cold breeze comes carrying the sound of birds singing. The sun is shining in the middle of the cloudless sky, so I squint my eyes. Wandering around in my own thoughts I find myself lost. I walk trough a shrubbery, with thorns and branches sticking out everywhere. As I walk my way trough I tumble down on my knees. I stand up with bruised knees and hands, realizing that I'm on the other side of the shrubbery, where the grass is gone. Only soil and molehills. The sun is hidden behind gray clouds and black shadows are circling around. A shadow comes dashing towards me. It lands right in front of my feet. It looks up at me with it's glistening red eyes. There's something so familiar, so tempting about it as it says the words:
*welcome back home.
Written: June 18. - 2014
933 · Apr 2017
Pretty
Clindballe Apr 2017
You used to tell me that I was the prettiest thing you'd ever seen. Yet you said my sister was prettier than me. You have always told me opposite of Her and everyone else but I still listen to Her, I still tell myself that I am not worthy of love and beautiful words. I try to be what you tell me you see by removing unwanted hair and painting my nails to feel less like Mona Lisa - a stiff painting of a mystery. How can I be the prettiest thing you have seen when you have seen so many other people and probably told them the same. I bet you that they did not have these self inflicted scars and colored stretch marks, even the little red dots that sit on my skin between all the bruises. I believed Her words of filth and hate - I still do. Her voice still lingers in the back of my mind and her words are carved in my thoughts like a tattoo. When you tell me I am the prettiest thing you have ever seen please mean it or just leave it because i don't need your lies when you cannot tell Her off. Please I know I'm not the prettiest thing you have ever seen so do not tell me beautiful lies.
Written: April 15. - 2017
923 · Sep 2014
Self-destructive kid
Clindballe Sep 2014
Grew up shaking hands with the iron.

Making a thousand diamonds shine on the floor.

Screaming over the voices inside.

Bruises and marks behind locked doors.

A game of play and pretend had begun.

Teddybears and sharp knives do not match.
Written: September 8. - 2014
Clindballe May 2014
• The place where we first met and you asked me if I was sad or it just was that way my face looked.

• The streets where you walked on the road and I on the curb so that you wouldn't have to hang to one side because I'm lower than you.

• My red hoodie where you'd put your hands up my sleeve and hold my hand when your hands got cold.

• The field where we stood hugging for so long and you first told me that you liked me and wanted to kiss me.

• The bench out by the lake where we used to sit tight and watch the stars.

• Near the school bus where people saw us holding hands and I finally felt like we were together.

• By the bonfire on a field near the school where we sat and measured who had the biggest tummy.

• The room where you laid me down in the bed and we started cuddling but someone knocked on the door so we had to stop.

• Japan where we spoke like nothing was wrong even though nothing was right and that was the last time we spoke.
(Yes, we did hold hands quite a lot and I miss it)
Written: May 26. - 2014
857 · Dec 2015
My teacher
Clindballe Dec 2015
My teacher is always dressed for a funereal and smiles as she says the word devil. She teaches us about dead metaphors, dead words and she reads out loud from forgotten books written by long gone poets. I sometimes wonder how she sees the world. If it is filled with sadness. If it stays dull on an April noon. If everything is as black as her clothing and her dilated eyes. Those eyes that stare into the universe covered in black paint dripping onto the floor in a quiet classroom. Her life is kept at bay in a graveyard of literature.
Written: December 10. - 2015
856 · May 2014
Bring me back
Clindballe May 2014
Bring me back to holding hands in the rain.
The moment where I realized that we were made for each other.
Every time we were together I got blushing cheeks
and butterflies in my stomach.
There is no one like you
nor one that makes me feel so in love
or one that makes me feel so loved.
Now there is nothing that can bring me back.
Nothing can make you feel my love.
Please
Bring me back to holding hands in the rain.
Written: May 25. - 2014
852 · Jul 2014
Tiny detail
Clindballe Jul 2014
I've planned the perfect escape. Every path, every step, every breath. I have planned it all. Except from one single tiny detail. You. No matter how much I want you to you're not coming with me. This is why I'll never be leaving. This tiny detail is the reason for why I'll never leave. You're the reason why I'm missing this tiny detail
Written: July 31. - 2014
850 · Jan 2015
Laughter
Clindballe Jan 2015
You fill out the empty spaces in my mind and heart with your tone-deaf
laughter.

If your laughter was a place to live it would be a farm with cows, pigs and
seals.

It could **** a thousand birds but I would rather live on your farm and see a million dead birds than laugh
alone.
Written: January 4. - 2015

Dedicated to my bæbæ
842 · Feb 2016
Night cancer
Clindballe Feb 2016
Under the stars I feel so insignificant while amongst human I feel so unbelievably lonely. The words only come through in the evening when I overwrite the everyday hardships with a permanent marker and inhale the cold night alone in the twilight. I look trough fake lit windows in my childhood home. The light has never been my friend because it only shows the outer mask and the inner desire. I ***** in the light, blinded by the carcinogenic sunlight and increasing the process with my daily dose of cigarets. The smoke reaches for the stars, I sink to the ground with a curved back. The whole universe feels bigger and I smaller. I get more insignificant by every sigh and every burden thrown upon my shoulders. We all die alone but we must live together as fake friends till the dark do us part.
Written: February 28. - 2016

Dansk:

Natte kræft
Under stjernerne føler jeg mig så ubetydelig mens jeg er blandt mennesker føler mig uforståeligt ensom. Ordene kommer kun frem om aftenen når jeg streger hverdagens strabadser over med en sprittusch og inhalere nattens kulde alene i tusmørket. Jeg ser ind gennem falskbelyste vinduer i mit barndomshjem. Lyset har aldrig været min ven for der ser man kun den ydre maske og ikke det indre begær. Jeg famler rundt i lyset, blændet af solens kræftfremkaldende stråler og forøger processen min daglige dosis smøger. Røgen søger mod stjernerne, jeg synker mod jorden med krum ryg. Hele universitet føles større og jeg mindre. Jeg bliver mere betydningsløs for hvert suk og hver byrde der kastes over mine skuldre. At dø ensom gør vi alle men vi må leve sammen som falske venner til mørket os skiller.
836 · Jul 2015
The duty of a human being
Clindballe Jul 2015
Helping the ones in need should not be a question left unanswered
Written: July 16. - 2015
814 · Apr 2015
Wake up my dear
Clindballe Apr 2015
Your mind has turned grey and fifteen years back from the reality everyone else is living in. Your mind has not passed the next milestone. Still stock at number 7. Never long enough arms to reach number 8. You lay in your bed of sorrow and despair. Afraid of being left behind with your own thoughts of childhood and imaginary friends. Only your friends have turned to black shadows of what you could have been and never will be.
Written: April 29. - 2015
810 · May 2015
The past
Clindballe May 2015
I have been writing for so
long that i have gotten lost in the pages of the past
A past I am digging in
to find the answers that no one will answer
The dirt under my nails
turns to thorns itching my skin sore
blood starts puring out from my veins
the past is not for beginners
it takes practice to ignore  the pain and guilt that comes with it
I wish i never dug my nails into the ground
searching for myself
I am more lost than ever
Lost in the transition between
who i was and who i want to be
I am digging my own grave right next to a clear tombstone.
written: May 26. - 2015
807 · Jul 2015
House of war
Clindballe Jul 2015
A man with no home saw the anger in our eyes and asked if we had just been in a war, not knowing that the war still rages on. Our home is a war zone where the kitchen tables rumbles like thunder and the walls shake from bomb attacks. Sadness fills rooms with saltwater and white sharks feeding on misunderstandings and words that cannot be taken back ones spoken. A man with no home knows more about homes than the people living in them. Maybe that is why my father will not acknowledge the homeless.
Written: July 15. - 2015
801 · Sep 2016
The shadow
Clindballe Sep 2016
They say that love can mend your soul but my soul is still torn into pieces. I can still feel my rapists hands on my body and my mind sometimes wanders back to that place where I wanted to run but stayed. I know that i shouldn't let his mistreatment impact another's love but his shadow still follows mine and no matter how far I run he is still there. Love can't take away the pain caused by tragedy but it slowly washes the dead cells of my skin and leaves new prints of affection. So maybe love does mend your soul but it heals with fragments of everyone that has touched it so the **** is still a part of me but hopefully love can shine some light in the darkness so no shadows can follow and I can run freely.
Written: September 8. - 2016
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