the blue sky, that was you.
the clouds were your freckles or the cracks in your skin.
you were seamless, overlapped with intricacy.
we saw what we saw and that was that.
we let ourselves believe you were perfect,
without really asking ourselves if that was true.
but it never really mattered,
because you wouldn't believe that you were perfect,
and that's the complication of perfection,
its all up to perspective.

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the pain of not being good enough isn't a parallel universe, but the distress of feeling alone. your lungs collapse and your breath is taken in, but never released. your head spins like a roller coaster and your world shuts off much as a light switch. you are a mystery that no one bares to take on, only because you lurk in shadows and hide in solidarity.

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