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[04 Oct 2009|12:06am] |
 Take a look at my body, look at my hands. There's so much here that I don't understand. Your face say these promises, whispered like prayers. I don't need them, because I've been treated so wrong. I've been treated so long as if I'm becoming untouchable. Well, content loves the silence. It thrives in the dark with fine winding tendrils that strangle the heart. They say that promises sweeten the blow, but I don't need them, no, I don't need them. I've been treated so wrong. I've been treated so long as if I'm becoming untouchable. I'm the slow dying flower in the frost killing hour. Sweet turning sour and untouchable. Oh, I need the darkness, the sweetness, the sadness, the weakness. Oh, I need this. I need a lullaby, a kiss good night. Angel sweet love of my life. Oh, I need this. I'm the slow dying flower in the frost killing hour.
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