To the assholes:

I can’t even write. You made me feel so small. Filled with hatred as a total lack of love unfolds. Nothing was good enough. For anyone. “I’m not your girlfriend anymore”, you told them all, just for fun. And am I really the only one that doesn’t believe this is the way? I feel separated by an experiential fate. A fulfilled future now so out of date. I wanted to come back to you, but I know now it’s too late. And you’re all too fucking fake. Let’s face it, now I’m just far too jaded by your games. Too overwhelmed by my undeniable mistakes. While you’ve used me to have your last laughs, I thought, too, it wouldn’t bare to fucking last but you entirely surprised me by the misery you held deep within your past. And I can’t even think of subtle ways to bring myself to ask, why there remains such a lifeless sea between us. And why you seem to think I’m any different than you were previous to the times we walked an open desert with a tension in our chests. An earthly awakening for which we were attuned and even so our souls were so heavily tied, and yet so carelessly unwound by all the forces we denied. I wanted to change the world but you assholes wouldn’t make room. 


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