It's personal, it's bloody personal.
When you see faces smiling at you, on your screen
Faces you know, have been burnt to ashes
When you pray that single tick on the messenger reads "seen" someday
Messages you know, have lost their way in a dead inbox
When you hear wailing voices tearing apart on calls
Voices you know, are now all a matter of the past
The Government has skeletons in the cupboard and yet no regrets, no fucks to give
We, who didn't have cupboards big enough for skeletons, now have ghosts in our heads
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