When I was younger, I might have once thought the world was beautiful.
But the older I get, the more that I see, the world has no place for heroes, and self-destruction was the only future we had.
I don't know what beautiful really means anymore.
In an era where I couldn't tell what was true beauty and what was not, I'm left with the only thing I know I can call beautiful, the only thing I know can make anything beautiful.
These thin letters I hold in my palm, these words I cradle in my arms, the stories inside me warm like a gun, the poetry on my lips bittersweet.
The things that I know can make anything tragically beautiful, or horribly ugly and cruel, words are knifes and swords and daggers, but also milk and honey and morphine.
How these words wrap their clothing on objects, holding them down to their meaning, can make something cry tears of joy, or tears of hollow happiness.
But that's why I love these words so much, because even right now, they tell you how to feel and what to feel, and I'll make these words beautiful.
So I can feel like the world is beautiful again.
Author's Note Hello everyone! This is the last and 45th chapter of this book and if you've read up to this point, I want to thank you for clicking on this book and sitting through my writing, whether it was good or bad. I appreciate all of your support, and 45 chapters later, this book has gone from 0 to a thousand, and that's thanks to all of you♡ I will be starting a new book, titled:
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