I have mulled in the questions in my brain through trying emotional crisis; yet, one seems as unique as the rest. Why is it that I feel as if I am the Frankenstien's monster, made in ugly pieces of a mis-shapen and grotesque outline of what a person should be? It happens when people question my strengths as a writer, as a lover even as a friend.
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The answer, is no. You are not a monster, your soul is not mishapen. It's unique and beautiul and soo full of warmth and light. I have watched it mture and change as you have watched mine do the same, and i'm stll in awe of who you are, my amby. And I always be.
So here's some advice. Only lisen to the critisisms of the people that truy love you, no one else matters.
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