there she is, with her notorious smoke – rolled at quickened pace and attached to a quivering lip
like a final, harrowing aside altogether dangerous piece of disfigured jigsaw puzzle
attire rather clumsily, rushedly flung together at lack of will – she wants, cries out, to be beautiful again
to simply breathe is to live outright and this petrifies her downright
knows not where she is, for her over – desiring, high – octane mind went right ahead of itself a fair while ago
she stands apart in the worst manner that she can manage to upsettingly imagine – touches the mere surface of what’s unfathomable
it’s been a mismatched hell hole which only she can ever attempt to fully explain
her sought after words her only make – believe sword of possible sorts – far too metaphorical for its heady worth and this just has to hurt the most
never quite enough to delve like meticulous crazy and to make up the agonised difference as such, so it takes it upon itself to frustratingly occur
and these preciously kept fingers begin to tremble like nothing we may have ever seen in all of our carefree – in – complete – comparison lives – seems we will constantly get to mirror the very existence she ultimately desired for

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