Words.

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Giving up.

Is it an option when you are irrevocably in love?

Can anyone stop caring?

Lying on the bed, morbid thoughts filled her throbbing head. The neural forecast of her brain read migraine expected.

She had been happy. Happiness for her was like the rising and ebbing of tides;  happiness was never constant. She searched Google for numerous advice articles.

Am I at fault?

Is it me?

What IS it?

She was someone for whom the little things mattered.  She believed in creating romance; not waiting for it to happen. She was no Sleeping Beauty, she was Belle. Unfortunately for her, The Beast was not a metaphor for looks but nature. Writing was her only therapy. Pen, paper and privacy; her potion for defeated spirits and a broken heart.

Time stands still for me

when you fail to understand

that words hurt me

like the vicious slash of a dagger

they cut me through and through

they torture me at night

while once spoken 

they are forgotten by you.

Words make me happy

like a balm to the wounds

I believe them

maybe I am naive?

Words leave an impact

the way spoken

more than what.

Words wound, words heal.

For me they flow in writing

while you can speak them aloud.

Time stands still for me

as the hurt consumes me through and through

words one sided are cruel

allow me to speak to you too.

 

 

Image sourced from here.

 

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