My denial
Your rejection
My tears
Your smile
My second-degree burns
Your beauty spots
My adoration
Your indifference
My disappointment
Your natural progression
My self-fulfilling prophecy
Your changing mind
It's true what they say;
hope dies last.
Long after your supposéd feelings for me have perished I lie awake in my cold bedroom struggling to catch my breath.
A weakened ribcage cannot contain this masochistic heart that would sooner see itself stop beating than allow yours to so much as falter in its rhythm.
We wanted so much.
YOU ARE READING
Desolate Moon (SS 2)
Poetrymore exhibitionism, more emotional outbursts, more uncomfortably uncut honesty. TRIGGER WARNING.
