I am the result of your wish-spell cast wrong (even though I know I'm still somewhere else beyond a lost memory between your lobes).
You already knew there was no me if I was only half loved. A deliberate amputation of the self isn't the kind of sacrifice someone should endure to be perfectly whole. (Despite it, I trimmed my edges to fit the mold).
Your sweet tooth and capitalistic obsession turned sour and damned. You can walk through Amsterdam's streets, New York's skyline or taste Chicago's finest cuisine— but we both know you'll never find peace or freedom beneath it all. It's only a race, a dopamine push and pull. Always wanting more, always needing more— A façade perfectly built (for I know, there's more fear that you want me to believe).
And I've said it before: "to each, their condemnation"— and that, as you've said, was only yours.
Since I wasn't allowed to show my raw, I wasn't obliged to meet with yours.
Your presence might bloom in pink shades, soft, bruised scent— each spring, you invade. But don't ask me for softness when you never met me when I bled. I bloom in poisonous reds, and I owe you nothing but what we shared.
And believe me when I say that I loved you as the only thing I ever cared to keep safe.
Next time, don't summon things you're not ready to hold, nor willing to face.
