She is the crack in the ceramic cup, the blur in the perfect shot. She is made up of chapped lips and cracked nail polish and freckled skin—the flaws in all the flawless things. She is the jamais vu of deja vu, the lies in all the truths. She is an impasse, she is the escape to the inevitable.
She is alive, but have not lived at all.
YOU ARE READING
Written Constellations
PoetryA constellation of prose, poetry, and verses spun together for a galaxy of love, life, heartache, and hope.
