The letters that he wrote

The letters that he wrote me are from a 

ripped out pages of his notebook. 

The edges are not jagged , 

they are soft like flower petals. 

Maybe you only call my eyes 

Beautiful 

because you have never understood

the anatomy of a maniac girl breaking 

until today. 

No clean edges. Only fire. 

Like these letters I can rip off and tear apart 

the petals of a flower but people won't think it's 

Beautiful 

anymore. 

Where has my beauty gone ? 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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