They call you angel, without knowing the best version of you is beyond the shades. In the comfortable darkness of yourself. They think about you in heaven, but your favourite times are the hell you make for everyone else. Just to be familiar with how it always was. They make you of poetry besides the dirty words you like to hear in your ear. They build your beauty in something you cannot rely on, not even in the worst lies. Not when you feel not even your face has some symmetry. They’re enlightened about your perfection, without knowing it’s precisely your greatest fear, your most horrible weakness. They thought you were strong when your most significant times are made of paper, wet trashed paper.
They think about you like you were someone else, like the person you always wanted to be. Like the one you are still afraid to lose
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