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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I take in her beauty thats so unlike anyone else, a flower in a field of weeds even though she would never see herself that way. To her she’s not a flower, and when she’s in a good mood, when she actually loves herself on rare occasions, she believes she’s a seed that has yet to bloom. But to her everyone else is too beautiful to be considered a mere weed-even in a metaphor. When she’s standing in front of me, in her most natural form, it’s when she starts staring at her protruding hip bones and the gap between her thighs that’s just a little bit too prominent, the one I love because I love every ounce of her. It’s when everything else she once deemed okay about herself becomes tainted with rage and disdain. It’s when her whole life for that moment, becomes only her and the blade she hides out of shame, the one she knows all too well. And when she loses the war with herself, I notice her pull out the blade, I scream, I cry. Just why, can’t she see herself like I see her? Why isn’t she the most beautiful girl she knows? I just don’t understand why. Why was this ethereal being cursed with eyes so powerful and emotional and intense, yet so hating and angry on the inside? I continue to scream, but I’m paralyzed in a state of helplessness as she draws the blade close to her, and slits both of her perfect wrists clean open. There’s nothing I can do as I watch her slump down to the ground, as I watch her once glowing and radiant body bleed out from two brand new cuts, two brand new scars that don’t take away her everlasting beauty, even in death. I’m forced to watch, as her golden hair spreads out, into a sea of crimson blood that was just as enchanting as her.
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