A Memoir of Naiveté

The look on her face devastates me.

Sadness, remorse, naiveté.

Oh, the visible pain in one look of her chestnut eyes.

A reoccurring course of events.

Extended yells, objects thrown, trails of tears falling.

Pleading, “he was my first love, naiveté.”

Blastoff, a flood of happiness, ending someone unknown.

With a soft, despondent tone, she revokes the past experiences.

Theatrically portraying endured events.

Rushing through the darkness, yearning for a way out.

Questioning her former self, outright naiveté.

She sighs, “I was dancing with the devil in disguise.”


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