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10:29 p.m. - 2012-09-11
Through the moral clash,
I pulled the curtain
And loved you still.

The horse would ride
With the ghost of me;
My heart carried
Every day, its heavy air.

A woman's soul is thick
As the sorrow it drowns in;
And when it dies, its spirit flies.

There's a heaven in the end.
It's called freedom;
And no matter how slow the death,
She must die to get there.

It's becoming a woman,
And leaving that little girl body,
Rotting with the little girl heart
In your hell and the devil you let inside.


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