In this part of the story, I am the one who dies,
The only one, and I will die because I love you,
Because I love you, love, in fire and blood.
–Pablo Neruda, Sonnet LXVI
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On the surface, it seems that I have everything. My past isn't particularly tragic. I haven't faced much ridicule in my life, save a few petty demons, but so has everyone else.
In the mirror, I see skin that is always a bit too dark, eyebrows that are always a little misshapen, a nose that has always been a bit too large, and cheeks that are always a little gaunt, but I won't ever persecute myself, no, because I'm not broken. I am not a flower, and I am not