it hurts to see all the love in all of the stories and novels ever written and believing they're only true in fiction while being surrounded by the unflinching, reality of it, constantly denying to myself that it just never will be for me. my isolation left me wading shallow pools and the waters turned me into something simply not conducive to loving. an relicked remnant, an exoskeleton of something that's long been dead. there's nothing inside and there's nothing outside to hint otherwise. no life would be improved with me in it and none will be diminished with me gone.
just pretend for me a little longer, will you?
No comments:
Post a Comment