"To pity those that know her not
is helped by the regret
That those who know her, know her less
The nearer her they get."
Maybe I'm Sylvia Plath reincarnate.
It'd explain years of insomnia.
And why I torture myself.
Perhaps one day I'll end up like her.
Or Like Dickinson. A recluse. Never in contact with another person.
Someday you'll understand why it had to happen.
Caution: Contains dangerous parts:
Harmful if swallowed
- cant fucking sleep
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