I've always looked thoughtful.

So much so, that at the young age of 19 I've acquired a few "inquisition lines". That's what I like to call them at least.

A single, straight fissure between furrowed brows; the countless microscopic creases and folds around tired eyes. Simple sketch lines that I've spent hundreds to erase.

But for what? To someday unveil baby soft skin? To sit and revel at my own beauty? When all I've done is remove the evidence of my appreciation for others' beauty? Their writing, art and cinema.

I've enjoyed inumerable sleepless nights earning my dark circles and squinting eyelids and fatigued sight.

I want to wear my wise face proudly. Why try so hard to look naive when all I've ever really yearned for is knowledge?

The glow of your amber eyes had once been a calming candle lit flicker. 

But you spilled the kerosene and your ill intentions burned me up like tissue paper. 

My edges are charred and my inhibitions have turned to ash. 

Your malevolence cauterized the wounds that your gentleness rubbed raw.