i
was not
    a  pretty in pink
princess
 yet, a brush with chance
restored
    faith
       in my
creativity
       as with all
we
may not 
escape.
pulled
from the chaos
 of that
mind
  i ask
which face?
   which breath 
    shall
       i
      let
you take 
from me? 
stoic destiny 
sealed 
     our
        fate
with tiny threads
and       lies
we told ourselves. 
like 
     those
rough sketches
you
 pinned to 
the wall,
              incomplete
are we
thus
to be?