I'm always looking at you, hoping to catch your eye. You're always looking the other way, but your hand stays warm on my thigh. I'd be more concerned if I didn't think I understood. I'd see things as bad if they weren't so goddamn good. Maybe things would be different, for me, if I liked my own skin. Then I'd stand my ground even when it turned to mud and I sunk down to my chin.
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