Funny how the same problem I had when I was three getting yelled at in supermarkets resurfaces. I can’t look without touching. Unlike you, my defects are quite well hidden, rotten strawberries carefully shifted to the bottom of the container. Maybe they would play nice with yours, I don’t know I don’t know
I don’t know.
I don’t think you know the meaning of demons. You ever find yourself crying on an examination table to a doctor who insists you're only sad because it's winter? (I’m sorry. I don’t mean to dismiss your past like my skeletons are so much more violent.)
Who are you? Convince me that staying is more cost effective. I have examined you all over and still can’t find the price tag much less the return policy. Convince me to give up every other possible future of better hands and softer highs. Convince me I can handle the sewing mistakes, colors that run in the wash, the less than stain-resistant. Rock-paper-who-is-more