schitzophrenia
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Dear Voice,
I don’t know if you can hear me,
but I sure can hear you.
I feel like you’re always present,
even when you grant me moments of silence.
Your murmurs underscore my days and nights.
He comes in the quiet
whispering about bloodied hands
and a twisted, dirty, ugly soul
wearing a plain girl's face
His lips skim along my skin
The barest touch
as he tells a loveless story
