If the bad times are coming, let them come, let them come But no because I don't want to and I don't want to say goodbye to this and the possibility of a future. There's a death drum and all I can hear is a certain song, skip-skipping on repeat.

A knife. A white gown.

Infiltrating my words, this is less about me and more about someone else.

I'm holding on to a nothing, again and again. I am skip-skipping. I am on repeat.

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