You uncovered my notes that connected the years with barely thought out phrases and polar-fickle-phases. I held myself in with my eyes while your fingers tore, telling me that I'm too destructive to ever be happy. I heard that Truth is Beauty and Beauty is Truth. The set of your mouth is ugly but now I'm beautiful to you. My memories, reduced, don't reside at your distaste. I'm too destructive to be happy but I'm too impatient to wait.