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As I type I can feel my fingers shaking from anxiety. like the shaking you get when you been in the cold too long. because that's where I'm always left. in the cold. it used to be bright and sunny but then the home burned down around me, all I was left with was darkness. ashes blow in the wind drying my tears as they fall like waterfalls trying to put what's left of my fire out, and it works because there's no fight left. I hear an echo of a voice I used to know as warm, stabbing at me like sharp knives. I feel a touch of someone that used to be gentle become not so soft. The home that used to be a safe place turned into nothing, and it's all my fault. The arms that were once welcoming no longer open for embraces. My house burned down, and my house isn't a building, or a home. it's a person.
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