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you turn your face away from me; say I make you sick - I make you sick. and with only words, you make me into the thorn. I, the illness that twists your stomach; I, the venom that poisons your breath; I speak as your treacherous, torturous disease: oh, god, what I'd give to be free of your veins. oh, my enemy and creator, the thorn in your skin would die to return to its vine and just be. |