Epiphany.

I'm that girl in Toms, skinny jeans and a sweater... messy, curly hair... vanilla perfume.
You'll find me in the corner booth at the coffee shop... drinking Chai... scribbling into a notebook.
And well, the confidence is an exaggeration... I blush easily... I get goosebumps.
Call me a giver of second chances... of love... and sympathy.
It's becoming easy to hide my feelings... ignore my mind... yet drown in anxiety.
Everyone needs to be loved... to be heard... to be known.
I am apart of everyone... originality is dead... but at least I know who I am.

I am.

I am the soft, pink petals of a garden rose.
I wonder why it is I cannot fly.
I hear discouragement from inside myself.
I see the chances I never took.
I want to be untameable-wild and free.

I am the soft, pink petals of a garden rose.
I pretend that I am luxurious and desired.
I am the tattered, autumn sweater with missing buttons.
I feel that perhaps I am too clichè.
I worry that I will soon be forgotten.

I am the soft, pink petals of a garden rose.
I am the red-stained tongue after a popsicle.
I understand that everything has beauty.
I dream of a person who will love me.
I hope, but hope is lost.

I am the soft, pink petals of a garden rose.

Remorse

Remorse is a sleep-deprived woman who commits meaningless actions. She lives in a desolate soul with no doors, only a small window of hope. Her sunken eyes gaze hopelessly into the abyss of her own lonliness. Remorse is always cold. Her frail body trembles. Her bony hands grip her remaining sanity as she roams empty hallways, and lingers in places once familiar. Her only friend is Sorrow, who unmasks the broken heart that Remorse has tried unbearingly not to feel. Remorse is only concerned with memories, regrets, and what once was. Her smile has been forgotten, and she has been forced into a corner, mocked and made to suffer until Forgiveness comes to her rescue.