Some people are beautiful in their look's
Other's in their souls.
But you, you're this special kind of beautiful.
You're the kind of beautiful that people see in sunsets and shooting stars.
The kind of beautiful that starts at the depths of ones soul, and travels to the outer workings of ones body.

-m.n.

She's just an old soul that was placed in a teenager's body.
She hopes for the world, but does not ask for much.
Just a kind word, a hand to hold, and some decent company.



-m.n.
01/07/2015

The dexterity of created complexity,
to at which rate what we ponder--
to fabricate or conceal,
which is harder?

my wrists still hurt more from your rough hands
pinning me to the floor,
than anything I've ever done to them before.

my head still aches more from screaming,
rather than by an old concussion lingering.

my eyes still cry and leak over,
but I'm not sure why anymore.

But as long as it's don't ask, don't tell,
I'll be fine.

When the girl, I loved, died,
I locked myself in her room
while her parents were in Arizona.

I went through her things
and found
**** photos;
A few where she seemed
ashamed
and a few where she
liked her body.
She had a gummy smile
and in others
she looked down at her *******
while having a blank expression.

I found empty
alcohol bottles.
Cheap bottles of wine
and a bottle of red,
stuffed with tissue paper.

Under her dresser
I found an unopened
letter she intended to
give the boyfriend before me,
where she admitted
to being ***** as a teenager
and how she hoped
it wasn't too much
baggage.

I threw out the photos
and
alcohol bottles,
but not the letter.

I don't know why but I kept it.
I occasionally read it,
because it's her,
and I love her.

I told my friend
and he called me a
Halomaker,
because I made sure
she was remembered
as an angel.