Spent all day thinking of ways to curate myself out to the world.
Pretending to whisper when I wanted to scream.
Pretending to love when i wanted to run.
The fire diminished, but so did the fine line between madness and insanity.
That line was her. Not broken, just bent.
She was all of it, my redemption, my muse, my freedom. But what do you do when freedom starts feeling like a noose around your neck, tightening by the minute. You smile as you choke. You cry, but only tears of joy.
She was a fresh page, on a clean notebook. And all i wanted was to blot my scrappy ink on her fine lines.
Guilt drowned in fear. Fear of losing her. Guilt of the freedom i craved.
She killed me with everything she had. Constantly and consistently. She killed me but brought me back to life, just a little bit each time with a kiss.
Each time, just enough for me to watch her do it all over again.