Time came and went, as did the hapless souls lost amidst its ever changing frailties. I remember your scent as if it still lingered, and her voice, and his laugh. Another’s eyes. Someone’s smile, I remember you as if you once meant something to me, but I refuse to remember your voices. Treacherous and cold, words spoken with only malicious intent. Monster. Monster. Monster.
Have you found the peace you could not take from me? Have you found a love stronger than that which made you mad with obsession? All the answers you sought, all the anger you aired. Do you still hear the voices of your past when you think of my comfort? Does the sight of me still stir your heart and mind?
I do not desire your answers. I think only of you in the way a writer does, a romantic nostalgia for times gone and nearly forgotten, kept alive only by word and memory. So real yet not so. Like the lingering love for a fictional character after the story is finished and the reader is still grasping onto the fading reality.
For you were always just another chapter in a long and never ending story about one broken little girl and all the broken toys she collected in her sad little life.
I never really loved you. I can only love myself.
But you knew that, didn’t you?