feelings I thought seemed like wounds. Thought they'd just heal off on their own, and leave functional yet visible scars. Maybe they will, maybe they don't have to. I once knew an insatiable state of inferiority; it needed her constant praise and approval. Ah and any of the guys could knock me off center. Fragile home, I suppose. As a person so disruptively addicted to extremes, I find it hard to look into a mirror and see such a bland, meaningless thing. I want beauty, I want horror, and I want it vibrant. Does the smart man see where he is? Thus needing no approval to guide him? I get it. The transparency lifts as you mutter "Look at yourself" from the inside of my left ear.
...I appreciate it, old friend.
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