alone now, the more beautiful, more poetic, more graceful one, scrapes inside me.
each scrape being a gentle reminder of what i was.
can you see it? could you feel the happiness that had been in my past?
no you can't.
hidden beneath a hopeless figure. bumps over here, bumps over there.
whatever happened to her?
the bumps made her lose it all: affection, love, desire.
i sleep to forget about "what could have been" and wake to "what i'm not"
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