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A Scapegoat

There’s static between my ears that makes it hard to concentrate on anything. I can close my eyes as tight as I can, I can even silence everything around me. That static never seems to cease.

My lungs fill with smoke and I inhale the familiar taste. There’s a slight burn that I don’t remember and I think I do this for nostalgia.

My hands are used to pushing people away. They’re even used to using some. Can you be called manipulative even when you never advertise anything other than your own intentions?

Feelings have been used up and my heart’s tired, pushing people away just to get a little rest. It doesn’t know quite how to limit itself so it’s learned to adapt – limiting those who get close instead. It a trade that sometimes leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

The smoke only masks it for a little while.

I don’t pretend to be anything other than what I am. It’s not my fault if the picture you’ve tried to make me into isn’t a reality.

I’m sick of the blame placed on my shoulders, and I’m sick of the mess everyone seems to try to make. Concentration is difficult at best, I’m not going to waste my time on you.

Where did you even get the idea?

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