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Dancer or Devil

dancer-or-devil

Maybe I’m the devil, maybe I’m the dancer.

Maybe I’m both.

Maybe I’m grateful when people bring up your name in conversation, because at least I still get to hear your name.

Maybe your name will remain nothing more than a lamp on the nightstand in my mind.

Maybe tonight I’ll turn it on, and leave it on; a blinding light casting out the darkness that it brought there in the first place.

Maybe the dark is safer.

How do we trust ourselves to make the decision of what is safe when we are the ones that always choose to dive headfirst into danger?

Do I seek danger or does it seek me?

There seems to be some sort of link to my soul and yours. A type of undeniable connection.

Who can be concerned about what is sane when neither one of us knows what sanity feels like?

If you can’t feel that, let me feel it for you.

If you don’t want it, I’ll want it enough for the both of us.

I know that my words work against me far more often than they work in my favor.

I know that every time I rise before the sun, it’s because there is something to be accomplished.

I know that these words can’t be considered an accomplishment, but they can be considered the truth.

I know I have been stripped again of my dignity by my own two hands.

I can’t love you without feeling like I’m lost.

I can’t leave you without feeling like I’ve lost.

So, what next?

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