When I feel bad about myself,
My chest grows flowers,
Some pretty,
Some wilted,
You would pick one everyday,
And say,
"These are pretty, like you,"
I hate flattery,
but you make me believe they are,
Even the wilted ones,
Seems elegant with your words,
And I let you pick everyday,
Until you have plucked the last one,
And to my surprise,
You gave it back in a pretty bouquet,
So beautiful,
So sophisticated
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
I nodded.
That is how I came to love myself. When you took every part of me and made it beautiful.
YOU ARE READING
Repertoire
PoetryThings I write in the middle of the night when I can't sleep or whenever I feel the need to put my heart into words. Poems•Prose•Short Stories•Artworks
