her soul is a riptide.
she is made up of thunderstorms and scars,
a
thing of beauty.
she draws on a supple canvas
with colors that are yet
to be discovered.
her throat burns and her eyes sting,
but she is still
upright.
she is standing in an idle town
with a sky as dark as her hair,
swimming in unfortunate circumstances.
and she clings onto a faint
glimmer of hope
until her fingers start to bleed.
she never learned how
to let go.
despite it all, she continues to blossom.
despite everything,
she
still vows to love clouds
and sunsets and starry nights,
and she still
burns bright.
