Your father told you that a boy of his stature will only see the way your eyes blink and not look at the galaxies within your irises.

Your mother has always said that your life has to be like the linens in the drawer; bought, used, washed, dried then used again.

Your Math teacher was adamant on equating your worth to a quadratic equation with only two variables; tears and blood.
But you told her that her equations were nothing compared to the way his hands held your face like you were as fragile as woven silk.

Your English teacher once recited a verse to you the way your high priest knelt by the flames but all you heard was a humdrum murmur.

But your art teacher... She could name every tone and shade yet she taught you to confine yourself to primary colours all through life.

Your best friend kept your feet on the ground while your worries flew over you but they couldn't understand the heaviness of that morose feeling in your chest.

Your lover stood by you until the only darkness he could see was his own and yours began to ebb away under the moonlight. He told you that being around you damaged his fragile frame of mind for he could no longer look you in the eye and tell you he loved the way yours were starting to sparkle.

And he was the last one.

He was the last bit of your heart rotting in the dusty corner of a forgotten picture frame in an abandoned hall of memories.
For when you looked at his picture one last time, you flung yourself into the air hoping the water would end things kinder than he.


The end.