Love is a facade of the mind. That âheartacheâ you feel is the primal instinct to run and hide. We want so desperately to be seen that we disregard what the body warns.
I imagine that if true love is real I would feel it in my feet and not my heartbeat.
Unable to run from it, paralyzed in her gaze, like a moth to a flame. The sheep is taken by the big bad wolf.
He wears her clothes like peacock wears its feathers. Parading a mask of genuine affection to trap his next victim.
To love is to be weak, I am nothing but a sheep. Une lâagneau, est prĂ©parĂ© pour le dĂźner.













