Don’t look at him or his pretty words. Anyone can call you beautiful, but few can feel it underneath. It’s just a word to fill a void, as though it’s any description of who you are.
At night, his slurred words don’t mean as much. His long blinks aren’t for you, so much as the idea of you. The smoke and mirrors of your soul won’t be cleared out by someone else’s lips. You can hold it inside of you as long as you need.
The glued back pieces of yourself do not need to be mended. We are all parts of each other, getting lost in places with dim lights. The air is colder, letting the smoke you exhale float through a clearer path.
He will not waft it away. Beauty is luck of the draw, but character is what you chose to become. Wait for the ones who don’t need to say it. They don’t need to drop the syllable. Instead they want to feel your soul. It crawls up your throat as your pupils get bigger.
Honest love is hard to find after five in winter. Cider fills the bones craving warmth anywhere it can be found. The cold air cleanses while the sun disinfects the wounds. The plaster of sheer will keeping your pieces together. Shivering inside yourself, he cannot fix you. Sleep on your couch if you have to, a reminder there are other spaces he never occupied. Your cells change constantly, he never touched this part of you.
The cut in your mouth heals when you let it.