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It’s a bad movie, but I still want to see the ending.

I don’t know if I’ll remember this,
So here I am writing it down,
I picture myself sitting on a couch
That’s never as familiar as home,
But not quite so doctor-y either
Telling the man I’ve been talking to for months
And he’s asking what I’d be without it
And I say, “it’s not me,” to  reassure him,
“It’s just a small part in the whole that is me”
But then I hear something reminding me that
There’s something underneath this new me I’m trying,
Desperately trying,
To be, and it tells me that it has always been there
And even though, yes, I could do without it, what if
I cease to exist?
What if without the sadness filling up my lungs
As though I’ve fallen in the ocean
With an anchor strapped to my feet,
What if it’s because I’m not really there?

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