everything i ever wrote about you is gone, for i erased it the way you did with my life. erased. effaced. vanished. i ponder of how you were so relevant in my life so fast, maybe it was my desperate need of someone to fix me, not realizing no one is ever going to fix me but myself. i needed a leaning hand and you offered, accidentally i didn’t just take your hand but also your time. i wasted both your and my time by telling you every little detail i hated about myself (when i could) and you listened and pretended to care. or did you care?
the thought of you sickness me, i hate getting this sentimental over something that never happened. my hopes were high as long as you were in it. after months of admitting that i'm over you here i am writing how mad i am that you are in my mind. why. why. why. why
the worst part probably is that you don't exist, you never did. our inexistent, invisible, intangible love was all i once used to see.
YOU ARE READING
on the margin and other stuff
Poetrywords flow out of my fingertips like ink on the surface
