my journal is filled with lengthy theories and personal ideologies. all my writing will be buried with my corpse and all those thoughts shall rot with my body.
i’m consumed by the need to be the girl they want to belong to them. to be longed for and adored like a god. but always to be out of reach. i never want anyone to touch me or hold me. just to be watched and dreamt of.
i was his clay, to shape however he wanted. i’d sacrifice myself in small, large ways like that. it was pathetic but atleast i was loved.
i was perfect. my hair was tied and smooth. my face was flawless, not a blemish on the flower petal stone. my movements were whimsical and orchestrated. but my feet were bleeding.
he didn’t see my valentine. whilst he was busy watching someone else but i stared at him, silently as i was choking on my own heart. that old familiar beating lump in my throat, back again.
we got together in spring, that was our undoing.
we fell in love when the sun glowed and made the black under our eyes seem lighter. we fell in love when the flowers grew to cover the veins that raged under our skin. we should have fell in love in the winter, when the beauty had thawed and the flowers rotten. when i was true and honest. i wish you could’ve watched me bloom before seeing me wither.
