No I don’t want to chill, last time I sat by your knees and laid to you my secrets you stroked my hair and plucked a strand. There are no pictures of me in your home of hundreds except in your room. I think there is an altar for me honestly. I can't visit for a movie, last time you picked the one about identity theft and looked my direction when I looked away. There’s a presence that would creep in the darkness there, and try to latch in the stillness. It’s hard to sleep over. Something in you is a fucking leech. And when that bites what to do with a duplicate?
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