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Not after everything I've ever done or the atrocities I have yet to commit: your life is mine, you insist; I'm the only one you want to spend it with. I guess by now you've figured out that nervousness is my base nature, that while consciously I know, it hasn't pierced through all my layers. Hasn't come to reside in my left lung, straining for air, strung up with rope and left to die.