EPIGRAPH.

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❛ My pain is carved into the distance between what you say and what you mean.

I am a singer of strange lies. I drag my past behind me like car tires stirring up dusty roads.

Yours is goodness that does not wish to be bad but that must be all the same. A lie kindly told is a lie nonetheless.

You think it would be cruel to stand up and admit defeat.

"I cannot love you, you hide too much of yourself."

Tell me truths. I would beg it of you if I had more left than my dignity. A broken heart is a necessary circumstance for the self-indulgent.

I cannot write of love until I have experienced the agony of losing it. ❜
E.H.

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