You're arrogant— a haughty tramp— but that's who you are and although it sounds horrible, you're the most stunning woman I've seen; and I love you more with every fault— falling for sugarcoated, honey-dripped lies.

I figured, someday, we'd meet again drinking coffee in France— eating scones. You'd be the woman I saw you as; I'd be the man you might love.

But that never happened because we met again on a train.

You've forgotten me— scratching bloody scabs on the inside of your elbows; no longer a pretentious beauty, but a scrawny fingered woman biting her nails.

What happened?