𝑀.

How does it feel to realise it was written since forever that you couldn't trust them? Him?
          
          Would you like to guess the pain I feel every day?
          Would you like me to share it? So you can understand how wounded I am? So you can realise how much you hurt me with each word?
          
          How does it feel to see how much it was meant to be?
          
          — m.

"Where are you now when I need you most?" More friday nights and the wound won't close, the tears won't fall, I won't let them, I open my closet ans it's him that I smell, but where is he now? He said he'd stay forever, he said we were back in the game, was it all lies ?
          
          — m.

Was I recovering? Was I distracted? The inner child is healed, the teenager screams agony.
          
          — m.

You said we were going to be fine. You said I'm going to be fine. You said he and I would fix our situation. You don't know how hard I wish to believe you.
          
          — m.

I should've listen to my mom, she told me to stop.
          I shouldn't have kept speaking as if you were going to listen, it's not what you wanted from me.
          You wanted to complain. Not to hear me try. And you always do. 
          
          I keep making that mistake, thinking you'd want to listen, but you'll never listen. You have you spoiled-child made up ideas already. 
          
          I meet the same poeple. The ones like him. The ones like her. The ones like them. They speak, I cry, they come back all smiling, I take them back.
          
          I should've listen to my mom, she told me to stop.
          
          — m.

Whether I stop thinking, whether I lock up in my thoughts, they'll feel the same. 
          
          Whether I pretend, whether I throw my heart in a dumpster, your words will feel the same.
          
          Whether I vent, whether I change, your words will feel the same.
          
          Whether you come back, whether you leave again, the echo remains the same.
          
          – m.

That one selfish little girl, twisting herself everywhere, crying at bus stops, so she never makes him feel guilty. That life-sucker, that little monster. Using the little girl as an excuse. You know how long it takes until it becomes his fault and not hers anymore. 
          
          But you don't know how quickly she fades.
          Dépourvue de force, swallowed by her own sorrow.
          
          — m.

I don't care how long it takes before you decide to notice my existence.
          
          - m.