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  • Every night at half past three
    A funny thing occurs,
    My scars all bubble to the top,
    Some deep and sad,
    Some slight, some made myself,
    Some raw and never healing,
    If I were to reach and switch on the light,
    They’d run away and sink once more,
    But in the dark, I can feel their roughness,
    Their bumps, the caverns,
    Each one earned, each one sliced through
    Gritted teeth.
    Every morning as the sun comes up,
    A funny thing occurs,
    My scars no longer show,
    And I smile through gritted teeth.
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