Torn to get perfect. Went wrong.
Shoot, photo, one, two, three, bathroom, bed, me, him, her, laughing, sleeping, naked, with blankets, sunny days, a sip of a view. Everything in it, but „prettiness“ that sells. Just what makes us happy. Not rich.

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Torn out never to cry again. On the outside. Learned to cry inside. Terribly deep, can’t ever imagine. Became a machine of working how others expected. Here we go.
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Born rockstar wanted to be a born princess. Went out with her nicest clothes, prettiest hairstyles. Smashed against walls of dignity, hate, pride and fake smiles. Never understood herself sitting alone tailor seated on her bed at night, singing songs, written for no one else but herself. With her smoky voice, dark chords, and sad words. The world wouln’t understand she knew very, very early. Too early, probably.
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She moved. From her home to another home. And another one. Wrote songs over songs. No one ever heard one. Fell on love. Went away with her heart broken and a pain, so god damn surreal hard, that no broken bone, no stomach pain would ever reach that level. No pill against it.

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