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I Bleed Myself to Be Your Drink, Is Not the Blood of Poets Ink?

I ask thee, Your Majesty. How can I bear that cross yet again?

How can I let anymore of my blood drip from his pen?

My wounds have since dried up but the pain is still there.

It hides itself away but some nights, it is more than I can bare.


I don’t know how to hope for anything anymore.

I don’t know what it is in this life that my heart should beat for.

A thousand times I thought that I knew,

I leapt off the cliff only to learn that I had two wings too few.

And now he comes back, baring his soul, ripping his heart out before my very eyes.

I cannot deny that I still love him but I cannot pretend that I do not fear his familiar lies.

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