Home Is Where The Hole Is

Feels like I'm slipping, one more slice until I'm dripping.
Gripping as hard as I can for air.
I close my eyes afraid they won't open again,
but when I close them it won't matter, because I am my only friend.
My mind doesn't feel like my own,
my heart doesn't feel like it's home.
It's like I'm in a different body, a fake, a model, a clone.
If it's spoken out loud it just doesn't make sense,
but in my mind it nests and settles,
no filter or dirty lens.
In my mind it is psychopath perfection,
leaking out of my brain and into my veins, into my heart,
coming out of my mouth and eyes.
Reflection everything I see and hear filtering it into
pathetic little lies.

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