You are beautiful, but I bet you already know that.
You turn heads wherever you go, while I can disappear
in a crowd of two.
You outshine a thousand suns. You light up the room
even in your darkest moments, while I
am the shadows that form behind those who adore you.
Amusing at times, but mostly ignored.
You must have been born lucky; your life has been a breeze.
With your looks, your every deceit, broken promise
and indiscretion is forgiven
without a lasting impact on your soul.
While I...my smallest transgression gets blown
out of proportion. I have to fight tooth and nail
to get where I am, and even now
I am still fighting.
You are a painstakingly painted Matryoshka doll that gets
smaller and smaller, until what is left is a tiny core,
its details lost. While I am a redwood deep in a forest,
whose layers grow with every passing year,
and each ring tells a story of the seasons
I have lived through.
You are a mausoleum fit for kings, crafted by the best hands
across the land, visited by all, but what lies within is rotten.
While I...I am a garden — no, I am an entire park —
left abandoned and forgotten,
but nature blooms here.
Ruins become scaffolds for vines and home
to scampering squirrels and warbling birdlings.
You are beautiful, and everybody knows that.
But so am I.
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