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You can get tattoos removed
And that in itself is proof
That things that you thought would last forever
May not be so.
Aren't you tired of painting yourself black and blue
Every time words fall short of the fire burning behind your eyes?
Isn't it ironic that
The feeling of abandonment
Doesn't know
How to leave you?
Whiskey keeps my heart alive,
But disintegrates my mind.
Its a fair trade, I guess.
Pressing my hands into the asphalt is the closest that I'll ever come
To holding your hand again,
And I'm still sorry for using your heart as an example
Of how some things
Can shatter noiselessly.
I wonder if she knows about the collection of hearts you keep inside your closet
And I wonder if she can tell mine apart from the rest.
I'll stop pretending
Like I know how to love something
Without making it bleed
If you stop pretending
That you don't practice leaving.
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