about how perfectly her body crust blooms
when she’s happy (or when she’s with him),
about how perfectly her hair floods on her shoulder
(my fingertips crave to boat through it),
about how perfectly her eyes glisten
to illuminate his darker side,
about how much she’s in love with satan
as I bury my head in sand.
I know she’s not on cloud nine
she’s forging a smile on her scarred face
trying to evade his image that blazes before her eyes.
I will help her forget him
with buckets of love I will jam pack her dry soul,
but does she really want to forget him?
Maybe not.
I will never dismiss her from my mind
I can’t.
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