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At night, I am lit up by not the brightness of someone's smile, but a phone screen.

At night, I waste my time talking to those who wouldn't spare a second glance in my direction,

Unless it's for my skilled hands to light fire on their skin like I had done nights prior.

The butterflies in my stomach are unrequited

And nothing will ever be enough, not even for you

Poems that Invade my humble mindDonde viven las historias. Descúbrelo ahora