Black tears paint my skin for the thousandth time tonight.

and still they flow

and I think of the painter who created those pitch black tears

and I wonder why I'm not worthy of more color.

The tears seem to be drowning me as my eyelids start to droop.

I find myself begging the flow of my to wash away the memories.

but there are too many of them.

They all block my view of the outstanding color.

The color of others that adore me,

and love me,

and think I'm beautiful,

and talented,

and smart,

and don't cut me down for being young.

But instead I'm selfish,

I continue to cry,

I grab the napkin

and wipe more blackness away.

Guide that inspired this poem: 


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