On this day last year, I loved you.
I loved you so much.
But I wasn’t here.
I didn’t even exist.
I’ve burnt myself to the ground so many times and sifted through the remnants and rebuilt with what I’ve found. I am the pile of limbs that sold her soul to the devil for 27 years of everything.
And still I manage to be everything I’d rather not be.
I stopped loving so many people that I don’t know who this is talking to. I don’t know who you are. Perhaps that was the problem; perhaps that is why like frost on a window we parted ways with the morning sun.
I just need someone who, when I wearily start to prise off my fingernails, will just hold me. Will tell me that I don’t need to deconstruct myself. That they’ve got me, no matter how sharp my edges are. That they’ve got me.