sometimes i get to thinking about all the parts that make me the the thing i am. it's a complicated piece of machinery - irregular cogs and erratic clockwork. what it is is just what anyone sees - requests and dictates pressed onto me, and i come away misshapen, like waxy confusion.
it's my distraction. porcelain and blood. there seems no inbetween with me, and therein lies the fragility. when the shell is broken, it bleeds. there is nothing more - no buffer, and an apparent absence of layering. i'm not so cake-faceted afterall.
or maybe i have doubted for much too long.
"feels like i can finally rest my head on something real - i like the way that feels - it's as if you know me better than i ever knew myself - i love how you can tell - all the pieces pieces pieces of me"
