There, I was labeled as a disgusting person and a bastard.
I hated my crime, and I hated the town where everyone knew it.
Is hitting and scolding considered loving?
Why does all the warmth always disappear without a trace when it's your turn, leaving only pain?
The wounds on the body that were whipped were as white as the body, and the skin and flesh on both sides of the whip marks rolled out like a blooming lotus.
Maybe she died because of me. For a moment I thought so.
When I was seven years old, I thought about leaving there one day and going to a clean place where I could see snow.
At the age of twelve, I finally got my wish and left this small town that imprisoned me and tortured me.
Is life just a circle that holds you tightly, and you have nowhere to escape unless you fall into hell?
Is there always something like this in the world that you secretly despise and feel ashamed of in your heart, but at the same time enjoy it openly and show off in public?
No one wants me to live, so what am I still doing in this world?
Everyone would be happier without me, what am I still doing alive?
The wild and stinging wind cut my face, and finally, I flew as freely as a bird.
Conception: