dear jonathan,
its 5 am
now,
2 hours
before hell
starts.
im browsing
through our
old photos
and i
feel
so nostalgic..
photos are
art that
can scrape
away
what is
real and
remake
reality as
pretense.
all i
ever see
from those
photographs
are pain
in your
eyes..
like you
don't actually
want to be
with me.
oh wait.
you
actually
don't
want to be
near me.
The marks
you left
are too
often scars.
one thing
i can't hide
is when
i'm crippled
inside.
some say
'time heals all wounds.'
i do not agree.
the wounds remain.
in time,
the mind,
protecting its sanity,
covers them
with scar tissue
and the pain lessens.
But it is
never gone.
i'm living
proof
jonathan.
cambria xx
YOU ARE READING
Quietus
Novela Juvenilquietus [n.] :removal from activity; especially : death. all they found after my death was my journal. [lowercase intended]