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i am the riddle you locked behind your tongue, and the ache you refused to wear. 

and those screams are frail to hear, like echoes that forget their own name. 

a saint could defend you, but your ruin was rather rehearsed. 

what a beautiful killer, moody.

i beg to differ, madam; the religion is due.

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take this poem as you will.. just some words dropped off my chest, a weight lifted, a breath freed. its a strange kind of beautiful feeling, really.