They put me in an envelope with the list of names who perished after an heartsore storm. I was wearing a sweet, linen coat and embroidered socks from the wings of a lost cherub, and sought shelter from the ruined love letters. They had sent me inside the circle of giggling men who had trapped the letters slouching beside me with their gloved fingertips. There, I stood proud, confident that someone might notice the perfection engraved above my moon skin and would choose me over the ruins. But there I was, left clueless about art.
I was with a pen they had brought to the north, to a poetess who wrote for the living. I stood proud, confident that she would describe the lonesome rhymes sketching masterpieces underneath my cheeks. But she amusedly grabbed the pen, leaving me breathless, alone in the sun cage and left me bewildered by the literature's myth.
The wind blew, giving me a mournful flight towards the poetries' whilom post office. I stood proud, confident that someone would see the thousand words I buried beneath my yearning pulse. But they sunnily got the envelope, placed me outside their window and left me wondering about beauty.
A man came afterwards, sitting proud above the words he uttered.
"Why don't you go with me?"
I smiled, sat in the clouds unproud, but confident in what I had said.
"I’d rather be homeless, than go with you. The last time I offered my heart to someone, I was left alone—unimpressed of my own worth."
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