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The Death of Butterflies

Memory swirling me,

cold golden opticals,

forcing a dagger.

Dissappearing heart syndrome.

Taking over all that's left.

Mingling in a corner of empty,

Holding the hand of uncertainty,

Butterflies die and fall into my stomach,

Normal and i were never friends.

And im still swimming through a memory,

Cold bumps on my skin...

Wearing thin.

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Written by
tiffany-bourlet
American
Published
Jun 23, 2011
Lines·Words
12·55
Permission

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