you were my aesthetic, as strange as it may seem. but you were art and made me feel free.
you said i was the art, not you. it made me feel special, nothing new.
to me, you were perfect and perfect, i was to you.
but things didn't work and now you're just someone i thought i knew.
—a/n—
hi everyone,
happy new year!!
i wrote this poem almost a year ago and surprisingly, i like it, even though it sounds a bit strange.
it's worded a bit old fashioned and backwards.
anyway, i hope you enjoy it and i plan to update loser hotline today.
thank you,
madison
YOU ARE READING
matter
Poetrymat·ter ˈmadər/ noun 1. anything that has mass and occupies a space. an abundance of matter in the form of poetry and short stories lowercase intended
