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Glitter
She wrote about a girl
who saved the world
and had a star upon her arm:
a mark that meant no harm.
But the author of that story had the same star,
only on her own skin, she called it a scar.
She covered it with her sleeves but spoke of it often,
always talking about how she wanted it to soften,
yet digging it deeper without any direction
and making it burn to get attention.
She buried herself in pity, and let herself unwind,
never once allowing the star to shine.
A mouthful of glitter used to swear,
a list of reasons not to care,
all tied together in a bow,
given to everyone she knows.
And she continued to write the story of the girl,
ignoring all the marks she was making in the real world.

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