There are children at the foot of my bed Last year when I wrote you my last letter (the beginning of my future poetry) I acknowledged who you were for the first time. I didn’t call you by any other name I let you know that I knew the true nature of your heart- that it was evil that it convinced me that darkness is real that the devil is a real devil and that monsters don’t always know they are monsters. But projection is an interesting thing after you burned the house down you tried to convince me that i was the one holding the matches You told me that I didn’t know what I had done You said I
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