She writes poetry on her arms. When people ask her why, she tells them it’s so she never forgets. Honestly, she just wants other people to read her words and tell her that she’s beautiful. She knows most people don’t understand it. She knows she doesn’t understand it.

She knows that when she’s dying the cells of her skin with blue ink, she doesn’t understand why. She doesn’t understand how a laugh can taste like strawberries or how eyelids have secrets written upon them. She just simply knows that is how she’s feeling at that moment.

Her pretty words strung across her dark skin will tie lips together and will make fingers twitch. She’ll be beautiful. She is beautiful. She just wants to hear it in order to believe it.


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