𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐚

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She wasn't poetry

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She wasn't poetry. She wasn't made
of beautiful words that rolled off the tongue.
Her smile wasn't as bright as the sun
and her eyes didn't hold the fucking stars.
She was none of those things.
She was real.
She was flawed.
She was raw.

She said what was on her mind,
and in her heart. Yes, some days
the world felt heavy and dark
and hopeless, but she wiped away
her tears, picked up the jagged pieces,
and carried on;

because long ago she realized
no one would be there-
to wrap their arms around her shoulders,
to kiss her wounds,
ease her shaky breaths
every time her heart was held
by hands who didn't know
how to care for such a treasure.

No one,
but her.

She was her own savior,
her own lover.
And that, my friend, made her more
beautiful than any verse could.

- d.c.

Loving Amara| S.Snape Where stories live. Discover now