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I drink to the ones who can sit with their souls and not wish for sleep and the nightmares it brings.

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I drink to the ones who can sit with their souls and not wish for sleep and the nightmares it brings.
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I could lose myself in you or die blissfully, trying.
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I swear if I were to rip myself open, it wouldn’t be blood that poured out of me, it would be him.
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She tasted like wildflowers; crushed, wet wild flowers carried in sticky palms through farmers’ fields, just before dawn.
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