She missed writing.
She missed writing poems,
To bleed her heart out into them.
She missed writing stories,
To create perfect lives unlike Hers.
She saw no point writing them anymore, you see.
Everything was an illusion, after all.
Emotions were nothing,
But only keepsakes, meant to be locked.
Lives can be anything but perfect.
No story can have any happy ending.
Only surviving and breathing.