Contrary to popular opinion, it seems I, alone, am the only person who loves her hair unkempt. I could scarcely imagine her hair freeflowing from the scalp through her neck smoothly and uncurled. There is no better option than to leave it be, attacking in all directions and spitting and hissing at every heads loitering beside it.
Dark, darker, darkest, there is no difference. All hurts the same. Pain, everlasting, lingering. Pain, day and night. The hours are uncertain. Anything can happen now. Thinking about it hurts. Truth is unreliable. The romance is dead. My heart, it is lost. Unrecoverable, hateful, distrusting. Wishful, perhaps, but I have lost everything before and survived still. This one was special. So special. Embittered, the tip of my tongue tastes. The flavour of my life. Cuisine of kitchens unwanted. It burns, to the heart. I do not understand. I do not understand.