I dont think there is a way in which I could possibly convey this.
I am out. I mean it, I do not inter anything, and I know, I know I was born to do this everything within me indicates it, people around me pay to know and I was born knowing.
but having to be gifted barley ever lightens anything, I am still in solitary abandonment, dray loneliness.
and it dose not begin to matter to anyone what I could or couldn't do, hell I am the last person to vouch for my self when half the time I am sure of so much.
so I am here to merely explain the pain.
the pain of loving something unloved the pain of being robbed of all possibilities, the pain of restrains, and the pain of rotting, anciently so.
so it may never happen, I may never be anyone, but at least I have the tender warmth of knowing: under diffirent circumstances I could have.
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