All progress is precarious, and the solution of one problem brings us face to face with another problem.

you just keep on telling me that i am beautiful;
you just keep on telling me that my hair now looks great, it's the right length, that you always love my hair this way;
you also keep on telling me how you like it so much making love to me;
maybe im immune to all these compliments;
maybe i highly doubt that it's actually true;
maybe i just don't want to believe that beautiful things will ever happen to me;
maybe not ever.