Killer I killed someone. I had to, It wasn't my choice. I killed myself, you see, The person I was is dead. Their blood is on my hands. They can never come back, No matter how hard I try. Sometimes, I put on their face, For old times sake, It fools everyone, But it dosen't quite fit. I am left with a hollow corpse of who I was, And my hands are stained with blood.
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