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They told me repeatedly,

with their baited breaths and angular track marks,

'This is not an exit, darling.'

But I refused to heed,

drunkenly grasping for another line and slicing open my flesh in the process.

I would careen to the floor writhing and vomit blood into the hands of my saviors.

I'd laugh and repeat over and over:

'You never loved me, you never loved me.'

What is my problem?

My problem is:

I never had one,

to start.