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My mind seems to always be foggy.
My heart, always breaking.
Always mad at something, nothing.
Myself.
I hate the regret, but the scars,
the blood, the rough bumpy skin.
The sting of the blade, the bite of a snake.
The tears of others over my bloody flesh,
like their hearts really love who they see.
When they only miss who they once saw.
I don't know who that boy is in the mirror.
But he is not me, yet I am him.
Who is me?
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