And when I thought I could lay down the antecedent,
wash it off,
renew,
you come back.
In contingency, my emotions return,
along with jealousy, precaution, perception and break.
And the half forgotten things become poignant.
But the catastrophe,
now you're different.
Better, more lovely, I must admit.
Like the transformation in the ugly duckling.
Then you tell me these things, liable for the riving of my reconstructed fragility.
I have a propensity,
my cuts don't heal, they lead to entire breakage.
So I cannot skin.
I must not skin.


No, absurd.
What are you,
to torment me like this.





No school for me today.
Sickness is unedifying.
I missed photo taking
):







You can't play on broken strings,
you can't feel anything
that your heart don't want to feel.
I can't tell you something that ain't real.