She's pretty but she's fucked up. She's pretty fucked up. She's sad but forces a smile when I ask her if she's alright. She's everything but feels like nothing. She smokes, which hides her tear-stained eyes. She's living but she's not alive.
09/25/2015
YOU ARE READING
To myself: rest in peace
PoetryThis is a toast to all the girls I've been and all the lives I've lived. The good, the bad, the inevitable. A collection of poems written by myself.
