So take the money and run to your man, I quit giving a fuck
The things I think I can be, the things I hope I can be
Only to find I can't
Only to open up, petal by petal, or peel by peel, like vinegar on wet paint
to find too many layers stripped back, raw and discovered
in my stiff skin that remains unquenched, always hungry
for a healthy dollop of saccharin sweetness, or of some oily substance
not unlike human skin
To smooth over the edges, the painful folds
But the things I think I can be won't help me with this
because it has to hurt to be true
And I am a coward
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