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Apr 2017
Maybe the last time I wrote about you isn't really the last time because here I am again, picking up the pen and slicing my skin open. After all that has happened, you are still the ink running through my veins and I am still consumed by the hunger to bleed you into every blank space I see.

I thought that my decision to stop writing about you was final. This fascination with breathing life into the idea of you has got to stop. If I wipe the blindness from my eyes, I will see you walking away from me. Maybe I am hoping that the lines on this paper will serve as strings to pull you back to where you are, constricting you in the process.

Writing about you is the only thing that I know of. It is the only thing that fuels the could, and should have been's surrounding my love for you. It is this, not a confession of my love to you laced with reality. These words that I and nameless strangers would read about a girl who is kept alive by sentences intricately woven to fulfill the need to hold on to someone who was not even mine to hold on to.

It's sad that when I think of you, I become motionless. Maybe it is because my thoughts of you are so heavy that my body too embraces the gravity. It is as if my body succumbs to gravity, falling into it just like my soul fell for yours. This very reason made me realize that I have to stop loving you. Thoughts of someone special should make me fly, right? Thoughts of a love so consuming should make me weightless. It should make me light so I could float up into the sky. Instead of all that, I am stuck in this lamp lit room, with the pen heavy enough to weigh down my hand and my heart filled with you, feeling as if it will never love again.

Someone teach me how to let go of the pen. I will forever be grateful for that saving grace.

I promise that I would stop writing about you.

Maybe...
3/30/15
Marinela Abarca
Written by
Marinela Abarca  MNL
(MNL)   
324
     --- and Lior Gavra
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