COLD

She isn’t one of those girls with hearts pure as the driven snow, nor with souls as bright as gold. She isn’t beautiful, she isn’t as soft-hearted as she used to be back then, before she didn’t owe the world her life. Instead, she finds her insides splattered with black ink, seeping into places too deep in, too out of reach.

She used to see the beauty and good in the world and found the light in everyone who came her way. But after everything she’s been through, all she is and all she sees are broken souls and contorted figures roaming the earth aimlessly, worshipping the unknown, in search of faith and guidance. She mourns over the loss of an inexistent soul whom she feels so deeply for. She sees the the ugly, the greed, the fault in the stars she cannot fathom into constellations and it is nothing but confusing. It’s far from easy having to carry this burden on her back, with such an old, aged soul for such a tender age.

Her thoughts are then translated into poetry. Her poetry isn’t a bed of roses, nor a walk in the park. Her play with words is her form of self-expression, for everything she fails to say out loud. She fumbles in her words when she speaks but never in her writing, as it gives her the time to carefully sort out every thought that almost never comes out in an orderly manner, and to craft something out of nothing. That something isn’t what she would think of as “beautiful”, unlike what some would say, but rather a form of art, to bring out and make sense of the deepest parts of her she fails to understand herself.

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