Your own thoughts are harsher than a mother’s disapproving glance. Your mind is a cultivated garden, full of knowledge far more vast than the seas, full of beauty that my words could never explain… but you allow it to root in the wrong areas. You allowed it to wrap around the worst of his intentions and you let it spit melancholic blood into your veins. They say beauty lies within the eye of the beholder, so tell me why it is only you who cannot see your own beauty. Tell me why you’ve tended these weeds with every tear you shed and every sad line you write. Tell me why you let your thoughts consume you when I know that you are capable of so much more.
You loved. You lost. All is fair in love and war, my dear. I cannot tell you anything you already do not know. You know that you will love again and you will lose again. However, it seems that you do not know how to weed your own garden. Let me remind you that once you siphon out the bad blood and remove those sad, little weeds, you can see for yourself just how beautiful you are. Your mind is a cultivated garden. Do not let that go to waste because you cannot bother to weed out the past.