You would not love me if I were not a bitch full of juicy venom
and cheerful depression and mostly talking of myself as if I was some kind of a
centre. I am. You know that. I do not walk around others. I imagine that they walk around me, and it’s
me that they want to get by, but I stop them for a second because I am so
fantastically different and white – that discontinuous line in the middle of
streets and motorways. Like an emphasis.
They gaze back at me. And at the same time I strive to be so naive and cute and
decorate myself with cats and teddy bears and I would love to cover myself in
chocolate for others to talk.
But then - I am the one that actually runs after others,
seeks for attention and company, and warmth that could cover me and be my
breath for eternal hours of soft sleep.
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