We are like a volume on a shelf of a library, a story into ourselves, never possibly described with just one word or even accurately thousands.
A person is never as quiet or unrestrained as they seem or as bad or good as vulnerable or as string as sweet or as fiesty.
We are thick layered page upon page, behind simple covers. And love - it's not the book itself but the binding It can rip us apart or hold us together.
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