How do I feel about this?
I'm just too tired,

I guess.

I can't really blame myself,

Can I?

But I can't blame you too.
You're perfect.

My life—

I'm having trouble
Organizing my—

Thoughts.

Thousands of drafts have been rewritten,
Over and over inside my head;
But I can't let myself put it on paper,
Simply because—

It's not perfect.
You're perfect.

I guess in the end, I'm ruined.

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