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this is not right...
i don't want to see you suffer like this
but i desire to hear some sounds of depseration
and you, so far from perfection, make the perfect target
for this undefined malice.

this is so wrong...
these moments of pure sin, these thoughts
i can't restrain. even if i could i doubt i would spare
you. because you need this, you need to feel your insides
become black from fire.

this is not necessary...
i knew it when i started to sharpen my knives
and dull my reflexes to your screams. but i told myself
otherwise, and now i stand before you, clothed in red and black
and naked in my hate.

this is not me...
remember that when you look into my eyes,
the eyes of your tormentor, that i am not what these
actions imply. i can be sweet, caring, kind, and above all,
i can be your saviour.

this is life...
and i'm not even touching you and you don't
even know me, but your illusions of self-importance have
misconstrued me as some sort of monster. i am not this and you
are not innocent.

this is it...
this is the end of crying. this is the begining of
yourself. this is making you stronger. this is not my fault.
this is not my fault. this is not your fault. we are not at fault. but
we are not innocent.

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