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I always wondered how it would feel to touch your skin. It was so white, tight and smooth. If it weren’t for the blue veins crossing it in every way possible, it wouldn’t be distinguishable from porcelain. Or maybe some kind of a canvas, with just blue lines all over it. You were the artist, and your body was your canvas. And it was a masterpiece. Because everything it ever needed, it already had. You didn’t need long, golden hair, or great diamonds, or expensive fur coats. Even with no clothes on, you were the strongest and most sophisticated, but still pure and vulnerable, fragile being. It felt like not just your skin, but your eyes were transparent, too. Like I could literally see right into your mind and soul. Still, I could never tell what you were thinking. You could make me go from smiling foolishly to crying hysterically even with a slightest glance or body movement.

Sounds really interesting and exciting, but even more frightening. And that’s why I never actually did it. Because you can’t risk ruining such a perfect thing. Even when I desperately wanted to feel the warmth of your body on my fingers, or maybe even the blood running through the blue veins, I was afraid that if I touched it, your porcelain skin would break. That you would never be the same, just like when one of those porcelain dolls break. And then it’s over, forever. That’s why you just admire their beauty, from a distance. You don’t let anyone get too close. Not even yourself.


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