what’s inside is history repeating.
soon enough this concentricity will reach its end.
as with all things, an end is inevitable.
though i knew, i still let myself be taken in… again, and again. and again.
and each time i shed off a layer, my defenses grow weaker.
though i feel the sting, i go on revealing a deeper part of me.
until i am painfully dry. stripped… spent… sore.