| It’s been a long, slow slide
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| To the depths of her soul
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| God, I wish I knew the point where she lost control
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| She moves slowly, she opens the blind
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| She looks out from her window, god knows what she will find
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| She listens for sounds of distant conversations
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| She has a memory of a time and place
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| But no consciousness of where she is now
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| She reads poetry she wrote long ago
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| She keeps words deep under the floor
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| She talks of secrets and desires,
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| Of triumphs and of falls
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| She bathes in pools of her reflection
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| She sees children in the dark
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| She waits for something she’s not sure of
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| Some kind of spark
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| Some kind of life that’s not hers
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| Some kind of something else
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| She’s a hundred million miles away
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| She writes poetry of places she’s been
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| She paints words all over the wall
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| She waits for something to enfold her
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| But she always needs more
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| Some kind of life that’s not her
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| Some kind of something else
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| On the centre of the mantle is a tiny wooden box
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| And she opens it so slowly and she sees all she has lost
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| It’s the only thing he gave her and she holds it in her hand
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| It’s a twisted, shattered, damaged broken heart |