The Profit of Pain

Photo by jesse orrico on Unsplash

Plastic surgery, excuse me my heart doesn’t sense your imaginary love empty words had turned out to be rhymes for fools.
My deep down tissue, plastic fiber, bulletproof, I cannot contain, cannot consume any more, none of this sugar liquid, running in thin blood, even cupid took a rest while watching this show snapping its strings attached, I beg your pardon, leave the room temperature, cold I know.

Skin grows thicker in wonderous ways because it has nowhere to go but to resist the temptation to wrinkle and mold.