I am the girl who spends hours huddled in a corner of a library, trying to find what you love the most about Marlowe, just so I can write you a poem worthy of Shakespeare. I've made books my lovers, hours my enemies and you the only story.
You are damaged and broken and unhinged. But so are shooting stars and comets.
The monsters were never under my bed. Because the monsters were inside my head. I fear no monsters, for no monsters I see. Because all this time the monster has been me.
That sadness that you do not speak of, that haunts you in the ache of midnight. Give it to me. I want to heal that.
She is alone. And oh how brilliantly she shines.
Don't let a king or a prince or a fairytale tell you you are smaller than that or who you are meant to be.