I have a peculiar obsession with stitches. For I think they're the most darling things in the world and always suppress a hideous story beneath them. I'm a black rose; and if you grasp one in haste, you will walk away flawed. Still how can you resist it's satiny fleshy petals? How can you not regard it's primitive prick? Life reminds me constantly of the commonplace and mundane. We freaks bare your eyes and shock the dullness off your flawless untested skin. Stumble upon me in the darkness and promenade there amidst confidence as you do in the light. This world exists in duality with complete disregard to it's stitches, keeping it's ugly past and present ever captive. I exist in contradiction of this flawed pattern. At no time cold, relentlessly Chaud.
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