I'd love to tell you, "We're in the clear,
and this gets easier with every day,"
but you'd know that I'm full of shit when every morning's hit or miss,
and some days you'll love me, and other days you'll loath me,
and you'll start smashing things
against the walls again,
and you will dream of me
drowning by your hands in a lake,
and that's okay.
No one needs to know.
I won't tell a soul.
I will be the pillow that you scream into,
or the one that you punch until you pass out.
You can break my legs and roll my off a mountain top.
I will climb back up with my hands.
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