May 28, 2024
I want to tear up every page I squandered on you.
I want it all back; every month, week, day, hour, minute, second, giggle, tear, word, thought, dream that I wasted on you.
where once there were butterflies, now withered and dead, there is a pit so deep and so wide and so bottomless, I fear that nothing will ever fill it. its icy blackness is as greedy as the cold and covetous hands of Death himself; always hungry, never satisfied.
they take a piece of me every chance they get, and soon, I fear, there will be nothing left.
