myriad of secret thoughts

Life is a coagulation of complex strategies. It becomes that way after a while, after about.. say, twenty years. When choices are no longer limited to doing or not doing, saying or not saying. It’s always too late to turn back and too early for drastic changes. There’s always a cause for the cause and a consequence for the consequence.
Hit me and I’ll bruise, stab me and I’ll bleed, but perhaps I won’t die.
Perhaps she would love the pain that spreads and exaggerates itself like a venom,
stinging her and awakening her to the fact that she is still alive.
She picks herself up, dusts herself off and starts all over again.
And in between she feels, FEELS ! the splendour and pleasure of feeling,
if only to feel pain, rather than become a numb white futuristic doll,
perfect beyond sanity.
She digs her own graves, cries her own drowning pools,
and laughs at the funny irony of life, and love,
and laughter itself.
Kiss me, and I will bloom for you, glow for you.
Slowly unravel, and reveal layers.. and layers.. and layers of coagulated complexities, individually simple, and absurdly frail.
She would challenge you, knowing you would not dare.
She would not challenge you, knowing you may not be worth it if you do not dare.
She would scorn you, and hate you, and love you.
Then she would laugh, brokenly, at the funny irony of life, and love.
And she would go to sleep with you on her mind, acting as if she cared about the world