#0169. I am losing myself to myself, subsumed by it, drowning in it. My eyes sting. My chest aches. My stomach is a wriggling mess. Believe in me, she says to me, but I struggle to do that. I struggle to believe in anything. I hate what I have become, I tell her. The streetlamp gives her the appearance of something ethereal. She wants me to believe what she is saying. But I barely believe that she is there at all.
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