I began typing just now but the words stopped coming.
My writing disappeared, yet when I got my mind back it was over.
Submissions displayed like a screen as white and clean as my mind,
While words spilled freely to my companions, secretly my fingers bleed a distant freedom from you.
You are the innocent abuser which I have pressed to love forever yet continuously mutilated my sanctum until unrecognisable.
Not one will distinguish my former self over who I've become, without the gentle mindless soul which glowed from before.
My words and heart have been strangled while the words I write and write blossom poisons into my blood.
My writing and feeling are the disease you so cruelly infected me with, forcing thoughts of nothing less than pain towards me by you.
I had never thought of pain before you, when we had been so young and timeless.
You have cut me deeper than any sharp edge could.
I've now bled the weeping stories from my bones and felt the small stinging pains from what I wished were just paper cuts.
Yet every time I dance this dance, the paint I leave creates a story about you.
A story about my lover.
A story of betrayal and emptiness and the loss of time and space.
The clock seems to keep moving forever but I cannot be dragged from our empty well.
It must be refilled wether it be wine or the toxic rain, I'll stay in our pit of dark mistakes until I feel the wet drop on my back.
The kind that shows forgiveness.
I'll never leave this place,
Because I know you'll never come back.
I know you think I'm putrid and horrifying now, as well as placing for my death in whispers I'm not supposed to hear.
But there is no reason to sever a strand of hope.
Especially when it is the only thing tying you to the ground.