This hesitating is a death
You can't put me down; you're wearing me out
The words I haven't written are worth more than anything you've ever said to me
There's nothing wrong with you
Except you talking to me, the stabbing attention
You crowd the silence with throwaway speech because there's nothing inside you
I can't stand your accent
You have a fat, mayonnaise curl in your vowels
Your consonants are distended, your voice a cloying, sugary vomit
There are broken things worth more than everything you've ever bought
You call people who tell you what you want to hear
Your name is a typo
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