I wonder if the truth seeps out more when we're in a hypnagogic state. No consciousness to build our walls for us. No self-protection. All our mechanisms of defense get buried underneath the things we're afraid to think and say. I see lacy bras hanging in your shower, and rumpled sheets, and I wonder if you thought of me while you were moaning her name. I know it isn't real, but I've always been cursed with a good imagination. Sometimes it turns against me.
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