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There she stands, forehead tipped forward, dyed-red hair dangling so naturally, so perfectly over her beatiful face and vibrant eyes so fucking seductively she cannot be real, and yet she clearly is. Like every transient fixation I develop, she becomes alpha and omega, beginning and end, life and death of my evidently ever-bound heart and gonads. 

I want her for I have been foolish enough to remember how great it can be in the beginning when I have so rarely succumb to it, though the ending flashes before my tainted, jaded inner eye at the same time. 

The higher you climb, the harder you fall into this hormonally-driven form of temporary insanity, and it takes you so long to heal. Remember now? Best to play it safe and play it wise, to give up on those games and just stay low to the ground.

Already you can see your resistance wavering. Feeling jealous, possessive, but she is no object and you don’t own her. What would happen if she stole your breath away, if you fell head over heels again just to get it back by breathing her in? 

You’re just wasting time in oscillation. Shit or get off the pot. It seems you’re just goofy-glued to the toilet seat shooting machine-gun blanks that just serve to ripple the water, teasing her fluid skin. Her aggravation grows. Your ineptness persists. One minute a stone wall, the next a pushover. You are the king of incongruence; master of mixed messages. 

I want to be close, 
but I need to be free.
I will not use you as a tool 
and you cannot use me.
Is she worth the risk? The past echoes: No, no, no.

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