the opposite her

Always left things unfold. Hidden a part, unsaid and to a half end...she always seems to have left things like that.

She has a story to unfold, a mystery that's hidden, she has words that never floated through her sculptured lips. She has unfinished works, a lot of them, drafted but never has she put them into a complete piece. She has left things to a mere end. To an indifferent eternity.

She waits for one.

Who'd surprise her. Electrify her soul with passion, desire; artistry. 

Write her a sweet note. Discover those unidentified. While everybody falls in love with her smile, she waits for one who will fall in love with her scars. Her rawness. Her impurity. Her affliction. 

She has hidden a part. A part that is too fragile, a part she has buried firmly with a coating of profess. There's no inside outs. As if like locking that inner kind-isolated, from the outside world and people even from her own self. Because of its delicacy, integrity and its diversity. 

She's a glorious mess. A mess of beauty, a mess of melancholy. She has this opposite sense of what she truly feels. She wants her stories unfold, she wants hidden parts of her to be seen, her unsaid words to be felt and she wants a happy ending.

She defines yet she doesn't want to be defined. She sins yet she doesn't want to be accused. She forgets yet she doesn't want to be forgotten. She wants to leave a mark, let it be just one person. Let it be just one. 

She's beaten, she's feared by her own failures. She's feared of being alone, but not somatic, she fears having to feel things, Alone. 

There's the pretending, denying, there's her unbeaten lying truth.

There's her love for things she hides for love.

There's her conscience speaking a voice of denial. 

There's she. 

Loved yet unloved, the opposite her.