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If I compiled
All my crimes and my lies
Into amnesty,
Would you come back to me?
The small on my lips
Is a sign
That I don't hear you leaving me,
That I don't hear my own soul scream.
I'll read your lips,
Watch your scarf play at your hips,
And I know it's true,
But I don't hear and call to you:
"Don't blame yourself,
Don't change yourself,
Just want to be over you see and feel numb. (?)
Don't hate yourself."
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