A Collection of Spectacles

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With men, I have no tongue, nothing which would facilitate articulation. Words flow from the mouth without hesitation, without a slight pause. Feeling freely is sometimes a burden, as it ends up looking as if I’ve spread myself too far, when really I’m indecisive and stubborn. With both hands clasped firmly around my beliefs, I refuse to change the way in which I conduct myself simply to make others more comfortable, leaving me content and severely unhappy at the same time. Either “the boys I mean are not refined,” or I mold monsters out of men. Sprawled out, as close to lifeless as possible, I will mouth something along the lines of, “It’s okay to like me but not want much to do with me,” to the next faceless hostage (though it’s never phrased well enough or uttered loud enough for anyone to hear). Maybe, one day the world will fit my curves with more grace.

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