It seems I am made up of one hundred dying roses.
One by one, each beautiful flower slowly withering.
Each insignificant petal falling. Diminishing. To be forgotten forever.
This scent is unbearable, knowing soon it will be perpetually nonexistent.
I think I’m on the edge.
The edge of something catastrophic? Quite Possibly.
The edge of
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Comments 11
I LOVE YOU SO FREAKIN MUCH!
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on another note - can't wait to see u friday & saturday lol
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But I <3 you Brandy!
Add me. :)
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