Before you read this, I want you to know this is not a teenage romanticism of cutting. I put it in here because it's something I occassionally during anxiety attacks, and it actually symbolizes me at my worst. I don't consider it a beautiful or admirable thing, and I don't show it off. Now
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with the correct cosmetic tool'
for some reason. Maybe it brings a touch of the down to earth reality to the discription of impossible perfection? Great poem, the only part I have troubles with is the 'flashy, ordinary...' ministanza. Somehow, for me, it seems to be out of place.
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