excerpt from a story I might write, #1

on the way to infinite, you taught me how to love myself. you made me believe my body an artist’s empty canvas and you had all your colors and brushes set. I learnt to love myself like I had vines growing from my hair and dandelions flowing in my veins. But then dandelions are weeds and your favourite colour was black.

you made me believe i was a mixture of saturn and dead leaves; a mere mixture of everything i loved. But I was nothing but dust and helium.

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