May. Be.
Sugar and spice and everything nice, and lust, and pain, and bitter refrains, and love unrequited, or returned, then lost, or felt too deeply no matter the cost, and the beauty so pure as to make us weep, and the type of darkness that won't foster sleep, and hope and despair, and obsessive need, and anything else. That's what I'm made of.
May. Be.
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