If I compiled
all my crimes and my lies
into amnesty,
would you come back to me?
The small on my lips
is a sign
that I don't hear you leaving me,
that I don't hear my own soul scream.
I'll read your lips,
watch your scarf play at your hips,
and I know it's true,
but I don't hear and call to you:
"Don't blame yourself,
don't change yourself,
just want to be over you see and feel numb. (?)
Don't hate yourself."
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