I wonder what it was that made you love me. Or if it was in my own head. I'm better off now. I'm with someone who loves me and I love her back. But something keeps chipping away at me from the past. Likes shards of broken glass melting in my flesh. I've dwelled on it for far too long. The sense of humiliation never lets go. Never remind me because I never forget. It's always there burning in the background of our lies. I don't know where you went to. I should be happy of disappearances because you made me nervous. I felt just like a girl, always waiting for you to make the first move, I forgot what gender I am. You know it's silly but it kept me brimming with an eager sense of love. Or of longing, I think I can tell the difference now. It wasn't love you wanted, I was just an amateur psychiatrist tending to your neurosis. It seems funny that I feel like I'm cryogenically frozen in time just at the mere mention of your former location. But even then, the ...
The secret garden of despair.