My truth. My truth that is always mine but rooted in my relation to others. The truth about love is that it is never constant, always torturing, and most likely something you can't live without because love is like cold water on the driest day.
How do I know what love is if I have never fucked someone I loved?
Maybe love comes in fragments and I've only had a handful of pieces.... or maybe love is really not love, but an empty box with beautiful wrapping and nothing at the core.
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