You know, I tear down on myself all the time. I don't realize it, but some days I catch up with myself and go, ''Really? But I was RIGHT that time, I'm sure of it!" I realize that maybe it doesn't matter, writing that. I mean, what does it prove but the common theory about me; that I'm unstable? That I'm easily hurt?
If I were to write nice things about me, I'd have to think long and hard about them. I guess I'll start with reasonably pretty; but I'll make it seem much more than that. Maybe that way, I'll believe what I'm writing. The best type of lies are the ones you can believe....
My skin is the touch of the moon on the water
my hair is the light of the warm summer sun
my eyes are the blue of your breath in winter
my lips are a-glisten with dew from the spring.
My touch is smooth as coming home;
my body as soft as the cascade of snow
my grace is an equal to olden-time ale,
my kiss as melting honey on the worn and weary tongue.
My smile could touch the inside of your soul-coats
my fingertips could stir with skill the dying embers of your hearth
the magic in my swishing hips could swallow up the stars
my love could banish pain away.
Da-daaa-da-duh-duh-duh-da-da-da-da-da-da
da-da-da-daaaaaah-dah-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh (etc)
Anyway, if I were beautiful, I think that's what I'd be like.
I think.....
If I still thought I was.
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