I tend to never sleep in the bed I have made, I often contemplate why I should, am I too ashamed to blame myself for what has occurred. Naw not exactly…I grow…acceptance to your past, as I hope you do mine, I can’t imagine the fact that you were once a virgin in someone else’s eyes, I can’t seem to shake you were once the dream of someone else, that you were once the apple in the pupil of another. Naw not selfish, maybe self-less, shameless even, naïve to the thought of my senseless, hapless jealous ego. I never question my own path of trust, but to live is to trust and to love to lust. I cringe over the touches of another. I can’t lie to myself though for this world no one walks in a path of perfection. I proclaim my acceptance… I neglect my competence of sincerity. Never been to obsessive, cant possess what I never had a tight grip on in the first place, you look me in the face I and I believe everything I know to be true, or do I care to know at all. All in all I know nothing…and anything worth knowing…is allowing it to be confessed…. not discovered. I guess my own perceptions…are the same conceptions you expect from me…I guess it’s the jealousy in me that makes me rest in the bed…I never made.
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