so long, london, ᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ ꜱᴡɪꜰᴛ, 03.00
it's tough.
it's tough trying to forget; remembering is the hardest part. it's tough seeing you perfectly fine, and it's tougher knowing that you're never coming back.
i hate how i still hurt seeing you, whether you're alone or whether you're with someone else.
i abhor the way my heart wrenches and twists, feeling like all the blood pumping through my veins has vanished. i held onto you like a lifeline. it was as if you were the sole thing keeping me alive; the only reason my soul lived on. i sacrificed all that i could for you. i would have given you the world if i could. wanting was enough, waiting and hoping and loving you in silence was enough. i had given all that i could, yet it still wasn't enough.
i wasn't enough, yet i was too much for you.
it's tough knowing that i'm not getting over you as swiftly as you forgot me.
the toughest is remembering how you didn't even think twice before leaving and letting me go.
in the end, it wasn't about you and i fighting. it was about you not fighting for me.
YOU ARE READING
[14] - monday's child.
Poetry𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯, 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯, 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘴. original poetry i wrote at fourteen.