┏━ •◦இ•◦ ━┓
┗━ •◦இ•◦ ━┛
‟ the perfect crime,
It wasn't with knives my heart he tore,
when he brought me to death's door.
It wasn't his hands that had me slain—
but he had killed me all the same.
Cold and callous with no remorse,
he turned me to a walking corpse.
And I am imprisoned in this pain,
while he without the slightest blame—
free to do it over— Again
— Lang Leav
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𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬 ── 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴
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