Continue to cut me off, again and again, and deny everything.
Deny my emotions, deny what you mean to me, deny your actions. Deny you love me. Deny you hold yourself accountable for everything and nothing simultaneously. Deny you are unstable in that you are a conundrum. Deny your defenses. Deny your problems with anger. Deny that you hurt. Deny you find power in doing so. Deny your responsibility to society, deny your brilliance, deny your failures, deny your success. Go on and keep denying.
You can tell me to fuck off, and for a period of time i will be out of your hair, out of this town, in no way able to reflect you. Perhaps you will never see me in the body you have.
But I will reappear again and again in different forms and different faces until you have dealt with me.
That is the nature of life.
Think of me when it happens, and remember I was willing to work things out, to try to listen, to understand, to compromise everything but myself, and I went too far and compromised even that.
For what?
For love?
Does love ache, sting, burn, and scar?
If so, then yes.
If not, then it was a delusion, a marred pattern, a ruined paradigm of what love is supposed to be.
Does love feel like floating, like delight, like vibrance?
If so, then at least there were moments of love.
If I could have nothing else, I would cut these moments from the ruined paradigm and stitch them together. I woul
from the ruined paradigm and stitch them together. I would trash the scraps, and our hearts would be kept warm and safe under what is sewn together. Unfortunately, this takes the dexterity of 2.
You don't have to like me. Not everyone does.
But I never told you to fuck off.
Your writing is still beautiful.
Continue to cut me off, again and again, and deny everything.
Deny my emotions, deny what you mean to me, deny your actions. Deny you love me. Deny you hold yourself accountable for everything and nothing simultaneously. Deny you are unstable in that you are a conundrum. Deny your defenses. Deny your problems with anger. Deny that you hurt. Deny you find power in doing so. Deny your responsibility to society, deny your brilliance, deny your failures, deny your success. Go on and keep denying.
You can tell me to fuck off, and for a period of time i will be out of your hair, out of this town, in no way able to reflect you. Perhaps you will never see me in the body you have.
But I will reappear again and again in different forms and different faces until you have dealt with me.
That is the nature of life.
Think of me when it happens, and remember I was willing to work things out, to try to listen, to understand, to compromise everything but myself, and I went too far and compromised even that.
For what?
For love?
Does love ache, sting, burn, and scar?
If so, then yes.
If not, then it was a delusion, a marred pattern, a ruined paradigm of what love is supposed to be.
Does love feel like floating, like delight, like vibrance?
If so, then at least there were moments of love.
If I could have nothing else, I would cut these moments from the ruined paradigm and stitch them together. I woul
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you're fucking hilarious.
beautiful writing. but i just can't keep a straight face. its ... just so damn dramatic. but it is damn good.
maybe i'll see you at Newt's party, if i end up going.
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i love you.
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you make me smile.
and scream.
just dont talk shit when i post something highly personal. you dont have to say anything.
and i never denied i find power in pain.
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