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i'm standing on the stage of fear and self-doubt;

it's a hollow play, but they'll clap anyway.


And she's singing you a song, with a guitar slung across her chest and calloused fingers plucking at the strings of her instrument and the chords of your heart alike. Her dark hair gently sways as she bobs her head back and forth, back and forth, moving to the rhythym of her—your—song. The blackened wings, the ones you pretend not to see, flutter and tremble between the shoulder blades on her back. You watch in pity and awe as her heart tries to soar while her body stays grounded. Her eyes never meet yours; her eyelids are screwed shut in fierce concentration. The toe of her shoe taps with the beat of her—your—song, lightly pounding the concrete, the dull dum, dum, dum echoing in your suddenly empty mind. And with each word that floats from her chapped lips, and with each useless strain of her wings, you can't help but wonder if she's trying to vindicate your soul as much as she's trying to vindicate her own.

to write love on her arms.

the jasper to my edward.

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