There's so little space inside my
bones, but it's my home and I'll make room if you can descry the
derangement which bears every piece of me that's not an
empty source. I won't lead you on with false hope, or the unknown-
But I must admit there is an emptiness already inside of me,
begging to be filled. Please, don't think I'll just make you
a planet in my atmosphere, you will be the sun; Without you,
no part of me will have any function.. Is that why no one will fill
my empty space? Do they see me as far too much to endure?
When will they learn my love is not
for the dastardly, the fragile, the tentative?
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