and if only you knew how much she did love you when it lasted, you wouldn't have left. maybe. probably.
THE GIRL WHO SPIT FLOWERS.
a poetry narration book.
seopresso, 2017.
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hurt was what the bully in me felt for the very first time. when the hurricane in me ceased momentarily and the thunderstorms began.
you had befriended another human, a girl; and she was, by all means, cuter than the short haired, round eyes, crooked nosed me.
kaya. her name was as soft as the rain dripping down the pane only to slide down the window, carefully. and it was exactly how she was. kaya was painfully pretty.
being possessive was the last thing the eight year old me even wanted to display: but heavens, i wanted you to be my one and only friend, and you, mine.
you were nice - sickeningly nice and way too good for me: and so, i expected it. i knew the girl with dew shaped eyes and a smile that glowed up everything, was going to be included.
- and i had never felt that excluded when you stared at her with eyes filled with nothing but love.
