he only loves me when I'm happy;
when I make him feel like a man.
smiling cheek to cheek, giving all that I am.
but when I break into pieces,
smaller than the sand,
he let me slip through his finger,
and I'm alone again.
I came to the conclusion that
I don't think people love me, they love versions of me I have spun for them. versions of me they have construed in their minds. the easy version of me, the easy parts of me to be loved, the easy form of me they can handle.
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