I see you, I see the way you're hurt and the way you ache.
I see the way you try to conceive love by just ******* your way into every ***** you see lurking around, you're ****** into this deep cynical lust that you try to come out of, but to where?
to more broken hearts and deceitful lies, to the way you gave in to the perfect touch you allowed to love you.
just to realize, perfection doesn't exist, and that this is just another myth of what they call love.
they call you a cynic, but they do not see that to you this nonsense is just a disease of vulnerability.