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My hands are like knives And my flesh the meat   I carve my body Aching in defeat   Again and again Each slice is a blow   To the touch is a rush I still wish to not know
as if the bruises from my self conscious's grip weren't enough of a reminder of these 
A tiny figure curled up in bed, Like a baby in the womb. I must not make noise. I must hear her steady breathing. I must rub her back, And hold her warm, little hand. I must make sure she feels safe,
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