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I would have been willing to live a thousand lives for you.
Embedded in torture, sculpted at the spine with rust.
I would climb on limbs, broken and mangled,
in order to reach the sunlight for you.

My fingers would burn off in frost before
I let you drift off the cliff.
Oh, my flesh is tremendously fine,
paper thin and shredding off, alike to the autumn.
My eyes are cold and not even yours can bring them back to life.

I am over here, climbing a life time.
You have barely taken a step forward.


𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭 𐎀𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒚Where stories live. Discover now