it is a scary thought
your disconnectedness
finding rest in the beds of strangers
your warmed occasionally by some strange fleeting embrace
shallow intentions accompanied by short lived charm
your bedside manner Sir
leaves a lot to be desired
lost among your insecurities
badly masked by this air of uneasy satire
your inability to truly relate to anything
on more then an animistic level of attachment
becomes horridly obvious
BUT
i am not a journalist with the hard questions
i am the Au pair
the maid
watching everything swept under the rug
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