i’m tragically obsessed with you,
the tragedy being,
you don’t exist,
and I have to love to death,
bits of you,
I see in others.


And I’m leaving behind a murder trail.

Victims who don’t even know it.
They’re satisfied with bits of me too.

In the end aren’t we all hunting bits from everyone,
to be able to conclude on our deathbeds,
to console our hearts, just before the soul departs,
there is no such fucking thing,
you should have been content with what you got fool.


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