I am the cross. I crucify feelings, leaving only destruction of self. I could never be hurt. I traded in my tears, for the blood of those who call me foul names.
By Elicia Lockhart3 years ago in Poets
Words Perfection in her day and age, the ideal face of beauty. Skin soft, unscared and untainted to the eyes. Lips constantly pursed, fire engine red to top them off.