Jealousy escapes.

And it's jealousy, crucial jealousy. When the worst scar seems perfect. Maybe it's because I'm afraid of the close doors of your home. Only if I could, I'd see what's behind them. But I don't hate you, I don't love you, it's because I'm afraid of you, of your home, of your lying eyes. They lie. yet, they're pretty. E.B