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Jan 2015
Sometimes I would hold the hand that broke me, expecting it to be a barricade between me and a vehicle.

Sometimes I got so scared of the monsters under my bed,
but I didn't realize that I crawled into bed with one, expecting it to stop the nightmares it caused in the first place.

Sometimes it kissed my finger when I got a paper cut,
but never once did it cool the tobacco kissed burns on my arm.
Sometimes it whispered "I love you" with the same lips that screamed "You're worthless!"

I remember when I hated everything about it but I still craved it to stay.
I remember when it left, but its presence still breaks my bones and cuts my skin.
I still have nightmares and you still exist in the pictures my mom ripped off the wall.
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