before I was a writer before you claimed me, as nothing - for nothing. I was beautiful before you stripped me, a blank canvas - for nothing and no one. I was vibrant before you dulled my gold and sold me. I jest, there was no sale... crumpled in the bin, a throwaway not good enough for a sell away or giveaway. Not enough to stowaway, to storeaway for a rainy day. Not anything. I was a writer before you met me. There were words I was desperate for you to read. Now I'm just desperate for you to see What you've done. I was beautiful before you took me. There was light in my face I was desperate to shine on you. Now I have black eyes from walking into doors. I was alive on the inside and now I spend my time scooping out the parts you destroyed. and thank you for the voice your absence has returned.
marie-falen
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Cataract / Stevo Owens
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