bitter narratives.

03: things strangers have taught me.

My darling Romeo,

I know that wasn't your name. I know you hid behind the satire concept of heartbreak and I loved you for it.

You were a challenge I was willing to lose.

You liked the way my skin emulated the colour of soil.

You loved the fact my skin was always the same, never changing colour. You said it was the one thing that reassured you stability was possible.

And do you remember the times we would sit in your bedroom as the cacophonous rasping of Kurt Cobains voice screeched from your speakers as you begged for me to let you to play some Jay-Z?

Romeo, we both knew we didn't belong.

We both grew up on different spectrums. You loved dull rocks. And I was only ever attracted to pretty things.

And biologically, hybrids don't make sense. But then again, nothing about either of us made sense.

So why did we try to forge a relationship out of each other?

I realised to late that my love for you derived off the fact that you appreciated me more than the others.

You taught me to fall in love with myself.

And I mistook myself for you.

Is that why I can feel myself morphing into you?

I didn't know you. I didn't even know your name.

All I remember was the way you grunted as you penetrated the blonde girl with the amazing nipples, whilst simultaneously convincing me that I changed you.

And I felt nothing after your betrayal.

You were too much of a stranger for it to bother me.