cette méchante douleur coule à travers moi

no fake smile today, no pretending it doesn’t hurt, that it is not falling to pieces

reserving the right to write the truth, when truthfully the lies come easier

less poetic to usher in the fall

less romantic to curl up in a ball

but jagged aches are all a part of the process, and today is a day to let aches commence

so the bitter feeling fool lays down his quill and instead writes with a scalpel

seeking to excise the tumor at the base of his skull, and play at painting rain clouds

use the lump in his throat as an excuse for heavy sobbing, when the excuse is there is no excuse at all

it is a sickness, my love, and my love is a sickness, it is

cette méchante douleur coule à travers moi, elle doit cesser avant de couler à travers toi

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