Letters to the moon pt IV

I was going to attempt to write you something beautiful, but there’s honestly nothing that comes to mind but the decaying love that you planted into our roots.
I want to tell you that you are beautiful, I want to tell the world that you have a smile angels would kill for, a laugh that God listens to on his most depressing days, a personality- 

and I can’t do this. I cannot say you are beautiful, when there is nothing beautiful about you.
There is no beauty in the way you’re sitting at home, perfectly okay with the way you are and the way I am and the hollowing in my bones when I take a drag of my fifth cigarette or the buzz in your head and the heavy thud that fills your entire body as you take another bong hit. 
I want to write about the butterflies that filled my heart when you told me you love me, but all I can think of is the way they fell into the pit of my chest every time you didn’t say it back because you were unsure of your own thoughts. The butterflies were long dead, And I think that any other moment I felt them , the rare moments your spark came back and you were genuine, they weren’t butterflies at all but wind carrying an empty breeze through the hollow soul that I filled with more cigarette smoke to give myself some sort of feeling. 

You are not beautiful, and I so desperately want you to be, but all I can think of is how she was laying in your bed, and I bet your lips were on hers, and she was in your bed, skin to skin, she was in your bed, whispering that you wanted to f**k, she was in your bed, sins pressing against each other, she was in your bed, and you were high as f**k and she was in your goddamn bed,
On June 7, I went to my first party, and we stayed the night at your place.
On June 8, I was in your bed, and when I woke up the next morning I still didn’t want to leave. I was in your bed, and I swear I felt like nothing could hurt me ever again. If Heaven was real, and the pearly white gates wanted to let me in, I would have still rather stayed lying there. 
I so desperately want to tell you, you are beautiful. But there is nothing beautiful in the way you told me you missed me, and the sun continued to set and the rivers continued to flow, and she was lying in your bed for who f*****g knows how  long.

I want to write that I, too, am beautiful. But there is nothing beautiful in a broken girl, addicted to cigarettes since she was fifteen, crying over a high schools sweetheart who doesn’t love her the way she loves him. I want to say I learned a lesson from this, that I will be okay, that I know it hurts now but everything will be okay,
maybe had I learned that lesson, I would be able to say that I, too, am beautiful.

But she still laid in your bed, and I would still take you back without a second thought, if you wanted me, and there is nothing beautiful about that.