Love letters are how she expresses herself.
How she thinks
She shows her love for you by keeping
Every detail, from passed notes to poetry.
She has a bucket and folders full of things
Kept close to her
Things she carries along in the beats of her heart.
She will write about the ones whom she truly loved,
The ones who caught her heart with an arrow
Said Cupid sent them.
She looks thorugh all these memories when feeling gloom
And i a doubt of herself
She reminds her well-being that
That bucket is loves stuck in a box
Reminds herself that she is of pure honesty and love.
She cares so deeply
Reminds herself that those letters she never sent out
Are words beautifully played in a tune from her heartstrings.
So when she writes be prepared
Ready to know that what you are reading is a cry for help
Off her emotions
The dots and erased words were shredded up into
A million pieces by her tears.
Know that when she writes it's her cry.
A lullaby that she sings with strings and feelings.
Know that these love letters are more than
Folded-up piece of paper
This is how she loves
How she cares
shows her beauty from the inside.
And when she sends them out,
Her heart is given away in spread out
Many shards scattered within them.
She will lose herself.
So why she cannot get rid simply of this box of memories?
They are the pieces of her put gently into a paper
That is why she will go through from time to time
At her most emotional state
Because that is how she finds herself again,
And it's not that she’s stashed away
She carries it with her,
To show the world that she is not afraid
Of its outcomes that may stand in the way.
She is bold and courageous
Does not show a shed tear
So when she delivers them out
And know that it’s over
Be prepared.

I’ve figured it out.
How to play the game.
How to place the pieces on the board
And get checkmate.
How to twist your mind into thinking something else.
How to manipulate your heart that you feel another way.
How to trick your body into saying “im full” when your starving.
How to lie your way out and believe its all in play.
How to see without seeing and scream without crying.
How to gaslight your own tortured traits.
How to trick your teenage mind.
This thing that I call a game,
something only the matured would master.
Is named, Your Teenaged Years.
And that’s how your play.

I danced with the devil because He had the prettiest eyes I've ever seen in my life.

So we always talk about how
we miss the made-up version
of who they were to us.
how much we miss them,
and the fantasy world of who we truly
wanted them to be,
who they never were.
but we never stop to think
that maybe,
We were once made up in theirs too?
or someone in our lives,
see our chapter as just a waste of time.
maybe, they were too
living in this candy-cane world
of who we were.