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Literature Text
The blood is draining from my fingertips,
And trickling down my arm,
My hand is drifting into numbness,
Because it was held too long above my heart.
I can no longer feel my watch,
That is clinging to my wrist,
Hands and face
Counting the second until the pins and needles come.
Maybe there's an irony,
That it was the hand you held,
That the unfeeling emotion came before
My heart ripped itself in two and bled itself dry.
And trickling down my arm,
My hand is drifting into numbness,
Because it was held too long above my heart.
I can no longer feel my watch,
That is clinging to my wrist,
Hands and face
Counting the second until the pins and needles come.
Maybe there's an irony,
That it was the hand you held,
That the unfeeling emotion came before
My heart ripped itself in two and bled itself dry.
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