Shadows settle on the place, that you left. Our minds are troubled by the emptiness. Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time. From the perfect start to the finish line. And if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones. 'Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs. Setting fire to our insides for fun collecting names of the lovers that went wrong the lovers that went wrong.
Beth
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Holl Marsh
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Corey
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