self titled.

my pretty sleeper

song: oh ms believer

i will tell you, I love you
but the muffs on your ears will cater your fears
my nose and feet are running as we start
to travel through snow, together we go
together we go

trigger warnings// n/a

{*;;*}

You're a beautiful soul composed of cherry chapstick and crysyal dewdrops.

You're a broken soul built by sharp thorns and cheap wine.

You're a delicate simplicity created from the hands of God himself with glass carved as your stature.

You're the worn out shoes in the backyard. You're the rain that plops into them and soaks through the soles. You're the grass that grows higher than they do. You're the dirt smudged on the broken toe.

You're the chilly wind that makes decently dressed mortals shiver. You're the snow that lands softly as a blanket, smothering everything it lands on.

You're the shivering from a panic attack. You're the gentle hugs that display reassurance.

You're the beauty in a sunset, the colors that hue into each other perfectly without any odd blend. You're the pillars that keep a building standing upright.

You're the sky, the sun, the moon, the stars, even the ground and underneath. You're the entire complexity of our universe and beyond. You're everything imaginable and you hold the power of something great in your palm.

But, what do you see yourself as?

Nothing.

Not even the bugs on a piece of grass. Not even the speck of dirt on the ground. Nobody and nothing. Even the air is too much matter for you, because it's something. Its not nothing.

You can't see yourself as anything imaginable. You can't describe your self with fluctuating vocabulary. You see yourself as a waste of important air and space. That you are taking up too much room.

When you say those things, you change to black gray. Not white. Not pure. You change your self. You make yourself capable of anything and everything but not in a good way.

You're such a beautiful snowflake submerged mess and, whether you think of your self as useful or not, always will be. Because you're my everything. My everyone.

Nobody could ever set themselves in your spot and get away with it. You will not always think of your self so blankly, and that's reassured.

Because worn shoes have been used, but they haven't been destroyed.

{*;;*}

oh, ms believer, my pretty weeper
your twisted thoughts are like snow on the rooftops
please, take my hand, we're in foreign land
as we travel through snow, together we go
together we go