just like how an author has this tendency to become more poetic when their feeling goes unrequited, longing for something that is way too far to reach somehow appears prettier than it is to be together with someone that loves you more than you love yourself; as in being pointed out for your flaws gives you this weird ecstatic sensation of self cautiousness. shouldn't it be a good thing, though? knowing how crazy your hairs look like when you wake up would always be adorable in their eyes, and how those weird group of moles on your left cheeks would make the prettiest constellation? he once told me, that my boring brown eyes were so clear he could almost see his own reflection. no one sees me that way before, turning my shameful flaws as their own lines of poems. it had always been me, a poet who romanticizes even the stupidest heart-broken tale ever. maybe this is how it feels like, being the subject of a literature. it feels scary, it frightens me, honestly. and now that I am on the other side, I wonder whether or not it is the same thing that caused the others' disappearances. maybe love, for them, was too much. maybe love too, for me, is way too much.
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