about her.

Everyday for her gets harder and harder for her to live. Its really weird because she cannot decide if she is depressed. She’s too scared too die but too scared not too. And terrified to go to bed because when she closes her eyes, all she sees is nightmare; awake or asleep.

 

I don’t want to be called perfect,
or beautiful or special.
We have overused those words
to the point where their meanings
no longer hold the eloquence
they used to.

Instead I want to be called
breathtaking,
or alluring
or paralleled.

I want to be called something
like that so then
I know that I am not
average to them.
I’m not “perfect”
because that would
be too easy of a
word to think-up.
I want to know that they
have spent their time
thinking of me
wondering about me
and imaging me.

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