their peripheral vision sees beauty; what i see is art in its fragile skin. isn't it more alluring? mesmerizing art without concealing it. they know nothing about me, and they don't have to know me for who truly am. staining criticism flows from them, maybe i'm just too sensitive? but kind of smile that remains on my them — it's hysterical to think. or i have this lips against not everyone will understand my journey, and that's alright. here to live my life, not to make everyone understand. angles, there's still a cowardice that devours me, pats on the shoulder from a woman who understands is enough. four corners of the room, ludovico einaudi's masterpiece is listening. suffocating imagination once afraid of the dark now my ally. what i'm unrestrained, their gaze is on, which strengthens me with their luminous and filthy eyes. people have no idea that i use it as a weapon; it is a weapon, my weapon.
