Poetry of a trying girl.

Hurt.

I sometimes think of your smile. How for a while you only smiled for me, as your eyes would light up and cheeks turn a shade of red. It doesn't hurt anymore.

I think about your waist compared to mine. So thin and narrow, while mine is covered in a layer of fat and juts out. I could wrap my arms around you twice over, but you'd only be able to wrap around me once. It doesn't hurt anymore.

I think about how funny you are. If you were to say one thing, even if it's dumb, I'd find myself diving head first into a giggle fit. You knew what to say to make me smile. It doesn't hurt anymore.

It doesn't hurt because I let it hurt at the time. I let the tears fall into a dark puddle and used it as ink to write with; I wrote poem upon poem with it, and felt pride glow through my skin. I let it burn like fire into the dark and when morning came I put it out with a simple blow.

So it doesn't hurt anymore.