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My body is a big ball of unrest and not even the trees can calm me. I try to imagine them with their long fingers stretching up into the air, reaching for empty space. But my imagination cuts them off before they reach anything other than the feeling of longing. My imagination is always too concerned with reality, when I wish for the unreal possibilities that lie beyond these acres. I draw mystical eyes because I feel as if you’re seeing through my fair skin and straight into my dark soul, as if every blink from your eyes is a shot with a loaded gun, tearing through my respectable appearance to drain my sinful blood. And I would hide behind the trees, but they have been cut down by now. And I would hide on different islands, but all my bridges have been burnt. And I would scream. And I would rage. And I would run like the wind and my footsteps would spread like wildfire. But there’s no sound. There’s no emotion. There’s no wind and there’s no oxygen here. There’s just your eye on me, and me suffocating in my own web of lies.

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