When you first called me a soft, delicate angel it raised a red flag. I had just gotten done telling you horrific things I’d done when mad. I was conniving and violent in the stories I shared, but you liked that version of me and wondered if you’d ever see it. You told me that the things you’ve done were much worse, so it was your job to protect me until the lonely ride in a hearse. A soft, delicate angel in comparison to you. You urged me to believe it was true. I guess I liked the sentiment you gave, but the words themselves still felt strange. An angel? Sure. But soft and delicate? Of course, I can be those things, that’s something I won’t deny. But main descriptors? Feels like a blatant lie. But I assumed you saw something I simply didn’t, the way everyone views the people they love with a bit more forgiveness than people usually see in themselves. So I was thankful that you saw me in such a sweet way, but I never fully believed you or many other things you’d say.
sweet sometimes sour – Stories by Noelle
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