She cries in the letters, she hurts in the lines. Her pencil is a torn garment giving away rags of beautiful details. And in any one she found her victory and her lyricism, less in her chest. She blames heaven, earth, and thorns for her misunderstandings. She lost her guide, forgot her map, burned welfare manual. Rebirth was today only dictionary entry. A solitary astronaut contemplating the fear among the stars, she cried in the void of emptiness, for ransom. She raffles in the texts that will smile, that will cry; and in her case, tear was her tap. She was taking pardon of life without having the balance for it. And not knowing what her values was, she hoped she would not take the change, hoped for daily joys between her sobs and be reborn in her eternal poetry, because thorn does not hurt a flower …❤