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Whispers of the Past
Let the rain fall upon me,
Wash away my fear,
For the blood I shed everyday
Seems not to hold so dear.
Shower me with razor blades,
Let my blood run clear,
For every cut upon my skin
Seems to rip and tear.
Yet everytime I try to heal,
To have this pain subside,
Another wound is opened
Makes me want to die.
