I'm locked in a room wishing to feel the air. But once I feel that air it leaves a tear in my soul. A tear so big it bleeds my insides out and takes my memories and throws them out. All the memories of you and me, when I pricked my finger and started to bleed. Like how I'm metaphorically and rhetorically bleeding out my soul but, I have no soul to sell because I've already dealt to the Devil. But it's not what you think, he was pink not red Like the blood from my body. So, I haven't sold my soul. I'm not a liar I suppose like how you were supposed to be there for me like the air I breathe but you weren't, like the air I wished to have felt. This is what I've dealt with, I feel so helpless. I feel Like the felt on a rug but I just shrug it off like nothing's bothering me when really there is a fire inside so bright it could light a city. But, that fire is fueled by anger and anger is like the hanger you leave on the floor in your closet. Just sitting there collecting dust and it starts to get lost inside, like the sound of talking in a crowd. Always there, Always lingering. But never understood like the shy kid that got picked on because they didn't want to talk, and had to walk home with bruises and bloody noses. But we're just humans I suppose, Right? Well, we used to be. Bu
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