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TKO
I'm sick of your shadow-boxing version of love.
If you're going to hit me, then hit me,
if you're going to dance, then take ballet.
I'm tired of directionless emotions
free-flying, bouncing randomly off of anything that cares.
Empty talk slithering through the phone deafens me.
Your hollow tears are over my head
and my salt soaked skin is pruned.
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