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seventh, dec i constantly catch myself stealing your identity. how you wear your hair, the cigarettes you smoke...the shitty thing is, i don't want to be you. fuck no, do you hear me? i just want to make out with you. or maybe, with practice, i can become a better you than yourself. therefore, the you that inhabits this world will surely shrivel up, embarrassed that there is a better you out there, walking around, being you. and that will leave only me, who is you. this will be a most glorious double whammy: not only will your absence spare me from the torture you inflict upon me daily (and that strange look in your eyes, wondering whether you're looking into a moving mirror, or not) but i will also finally be able to make out with you, which is really my damn self. and it will be everything i ever dreamed of. amen. |