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Stop pushing me, sweetheart, I'm well passed the edge. This is a mountain, not an envelope. You are not a stamp, nor a fine point pen; I am certainly no name worth sending letters to. I told you, babe, this sandy peek is too thin for me. The air is too much like my weight; my skin, holding me together, but letting you tear me apart. I'm a greeting card, but I don't really want to fall (because falling would be validation of the ennui you put me through.) Shh, look out the window. There's those girls again; the one with the pretty eyes looks through my window, but only on Tuesday (when I look for her.) They look like the magazine covers at a bookstore, waiting to be picked up. Saturday I think I'll lower myself to their level, just to see if you notice. Lord knows on Sunday I'll be too exhausted, and proud to fucking care about you.
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You held me so close, so protectively, in your arms. You murmured those words of love, of possession, and all I saw was you. But no longer.
I can see the edge. The murmurs have stopped, I'm looking away, your arms are holding me too tight. Independence? You're with me, but I am not here. I'm not drowning in you any longer. The edge is near, a new feeling, wild, crazy, me.
I can't not jump when I'm at the edge.
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