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In my confessions, I introduce to myself
The person I didn’t meet when she was alive;

Whilst I criticize her choices,
I steal from her helplessness too,
so my mistakes have a wall to lean onto;

the girl makes me laugh and my laughter
is the birth of what she wished to see,
if only day didn’t give into time
and made her look behind more often than not;

the confessions she didn’t write
but buried for me to hunt in my mind,
sometimes I throw away the map she left
because I’d like freedom not stolen
though I know the guilt will become a shadow

I cry where she left off,
I cry where she left off…


2 responses to “Dicta.”

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