She was an emotional, manipulative yet loyal, angry and hungry poet with trust issues and a sense of humour she didn't know about. Her passion for art grew from stems of hatred, lust, anger and betrayal. She refused to dance, she hated the smell of happiness yet she wished she would find something like that for herself.
Everyday she bathed herself in self pity and memories of all the love she had given up in moments of selfishness. She thought about times she had forced the truth with her fake tears and fear out of people just to be sure how far they'll go for her.
Yet, she would lazy around and fling the sheets over herself when they wanted to leave, she didn't fight for them. Only when the dreams gave her scars. Only then did she wear her coat and go after them.
She loved in the secrecy of her solitude, in her room of many faces. She wore a new face everyday, a new lie about how okay she was. Meanwhile on the inside, she suffered a new death everyday.
She would never leave her heart in your hands and runs far away from love. She can't take it. She can't help herself, she can only love herself, nobody is worthy of her love and she is not worthy of yours but you can't help it. You can help but give her everything you have.
No matter how far she runs, no matter how far she strays, she comes back even if you were never waiting. She can't give up. She wants to, she can't.
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