She's a recipe for disaster Miss Perfect
Moves swiftly with her head held high and her teeth gleaming in long flawless smiles.
She steps up to everyone and smiles warmly in greeting and those who are elite get to have something warmer, her hugs. Which I was not worthy of.
They say nothing is perfect but then why was the word "Perfect" invented if nothing could match up to it?
For her, I suppose.
Because no other word weighed enough to describe her.
No one cared enough to realise she wasn't in fact all that perfect.
They labeled her so.
Gave her the fake tag.
No one cared enough to stop and see that the smile was fake, the hugs were cold and the head was high so as the wind could catch up to her tears and dry them.
But I noticed.
YOU ARE READING
Broken Pillow
PoesíaThis is for you. You who craves the love you give away be returned to you. you who hopes life gets better and that your heart shall heal. You who knows the pain of begging yourself to be happier, to live longer and not take your life. This for you...
