One-hundred and Fourteen: Soft

Me, faded but strong like an old photograph, a kiss in the wind that can
leave whenever she damn well chooses. What, you think you’re the first?
They all pull, pull, pulled at me at the start, as hard as I push, push, pushed
them away. I put up spikes on every word while whispering carelessly at night:
Love me, I dare you. Bait. As if I was waiting for them to save me. You see,
I am terribly good at pretending that I’m soft pretending to be tough because I
know, somehow, I know, that they liked to imagine that I could be saved, that
they could the ones to save me. Well, isn’t it funny: we all thought I was damaged
when I’m actually just difficult. Except -shh, don’t tell anyone- maybe I’m just soft.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

One thought on “One-hundred and Fourteen: Soft”

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