This is your fault.
You came into my life, held my hand and pulled me down a treacherous path, but I was so in love with you that it didn't matter.
I didn't notice the dark of the forest, the clumsiness of the path, or how the rose bushes only had thorns until I saw the gravestone and tomb that was waiting, only feet from where we stood together, for me.
My name hung there, etched perfectly- arguably the only thing in our world that was perfect.
It was then that I turned away and ran. Ran away from that gravesite, away from the thorns, and away from you.
Slowly, things got better. My scratches healed and I found my own path.
But now, pacing my yellow brick road, I can't help but think of that tomb.
What would have happened if I had followed you, closer and closer, to the grave? Would somebody have tried to stop me? you? us? Would I have been buried alive? Would I have been perfectly fine?
You're gone, but I can still feel a phantom touch grasp my hand and pull me back to those dark woods. Somedays more frequent and intense than others.
I know where I am is safe and healthy, but I want to go back.
And this is all your fault.
Why can't you just let me live? Why do you have to wrap your toxicity around me so easily?
Why am I here? What would happen if I went back?
