She’s a circle.

She tells me that she feels like a circular puzzle piece.

And though I know she’d never tell me why, I have a pretty good idea of the reason anyways. She yearns for his love, and brandishes an eraser as proof of her dedication.

“I like girls that are nice” He says, so she demolishes the castle of her convictions and redraws her beliefs in sand.

“You have nice smile” He says, so she pulls the edges of her tears into those upward crescents, smiling, always smiling.

I tell her she’s over-reacting. “People say that stuff all the time.”
She smiles back, “I know.” 

But she doesn’t. Her soul has no edges, she’s blurred away anything that could possibly maim his perception of her virtue. People say that lovers are puzzle pieces that fit together prettily. How does a circle fit with anything?

-Sophie