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When I tell you I'm tired
The trouble is my bed
It doesn't seem to fit right
Without the outline of your head

When you tell me you're tired
The trouble is what's said
Typically in times of trouble
Your patience rests instead

When I tell you I'm sorry
The truth is I don't know
My intentions never crooked
Though my weakness always shows

When you tell me you're sorry
The truth is hidden low
You overthrow my worries
Keep tradition and just let go

When I tell you I'm leaving
What I mean is I'm holding on
Staring at the unmarked path
Reluctant to move along

When you tell me you're leaving
What you mean is you've already gone
So far down the crossroads
You can't make right from wrong
i
a  m
positive
that   you
are  made  of
s  t   a  r   d  u  s  t
and  water  balloons,
oil  pastels  and  the
collecti­on          of
settled     sugar
at             the
b o t  t o m
of      my
c u p s
o     f
t e a
You remind me of a poem I forgot to write. I let the words coat the back of my tongue and the letters drip down my throat, accentuating an itch I couldn’t bring myself to scratch.
I tell the ghosts in the toll booths what haunts me
but when you lie asleep next to me
I hold my breath like I'm passing graveyards.
I used to wear you
like a noose around my neck,
but I was the one hanging

on every word you said.

There are better ways

to **** yourself

but for some reason 

I chose you.
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