I don't want the words I wrote.
The words about him.
I want to throw them into the snow and watch them freeze.
I want to dig them out from my skin and be free.
But instead they sit,
Like tattoos,
On my pink skin.
I can't take back the descriptions of dead flowers and hazel eyes.
I can't destroy the memory of how he made me feel.
But now that feeling is overshadowed by a more recent one.
One of pain and anger.
He has forgotten my words.
He couldn't give a damn about the words carved in my flesh.
He proved that the moment he decided to block me,
To cut off all communication.
Why are you so upset?
Because he made me trust him.
I told him my pain
I told him how much I was hurting.
And yet
He left.
Without a word
He left.
