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Maybe it's the voice in your head whispering the well-known fact

Or the eyes on you, watching and judging, unaware of their impact

Nevertheless, your head is kept high

Acting as though those eyes and mouths aren't daggers

Chopping your heart and mind into tiny insignificant pieces

Holding your very essence captive

Orchestrating your own demise

Permeating that fragile thing you call a mind

Seeing and listening and absorbing

Isolating yourself because

Surely, there has never been a place for you.

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