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    a lover

    there is a certain softness in me, and i am not quite sure where i learned it.

    from my mother perhaps, who cries when she gets angry. her love was freely given, but there is a thin line i have not yet crossed before it is withdrawn.

    maybe it is not as much something i have learned as it is my fatal flaw. 

    it sits somewhere that hands cannot reach, nestled warm and tight between my lungs. it sucks in all warmth, an attempt to let me seek it out from others. i am told my fingers are eternally cold.

    i know that it did not form from my own experiences, for then it would have died long ago. i have lost other's affections just as fast as i have gained them and that much hurt should have shut my heart down, slow its beating. the opposite happened, and every person i love gets shown more and more of myself.

    soon there will be nothing new of me to give. 

    all i wish is to be held.

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