But I know so very little of love. I know very little of anything, really, and my every emotion is dulled by its opposite, as I feel all things at once; love and hate and sadness and happiness. Everything I feel comes from one half of my heart, and the other half holds the first half back, waters it down.
The negative half usually wins over my mouth, while the positive steals my mind. My lips part not for kisses but for accusations and desperate words.
Still, the tender and sweet things make little homes inside my skull, homes woven out of daisy stems, dens in the riverbank.
All of us live in there, and we're really happy, and that's all I know of love.
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