It has been months since I picked up the courage to spill my thoughts
but it's not like I haven't thought about coming back
I keep telling myself that my passion for writing has died
and like every dead things, they were never made to come back to life
I wish I could look back on the words I dedicated if I hadn't erase them
the truth is I have never regret all the things I wrote about you
but like every dead things, they were meant to come back and haunt.

What's unbearable was the incoherency that my mind fell into
over time, I stopped feeling altogether
I wasn't crazy, I wasn't sad, I wasn't angry either
sometimes I remember the earlier days and felt better
sometimes I think about the good memories and felt hopeless
the truth is I have never been this scared in a long time
and the fear swallowed me whole.

Trust me when I say the only thing I'm good at is lying
I went on for months denying what was stirring in my chest
I went on even longer thinking that I was absolutely fine
I learnt that you never really know how good you are until you're not
and the only thing I'm good at is crumbling to my feet
the truth is I have never had to hold my own bandages
but in the end, it's the only thing holding me.

I thought about all the other things I've loved before you
but everything I do reminds me of how hollow I am
I go through everyday wishing I was a ghost that would trail your every shadow
maybe it would be more fair if you felt the emptiness I've become
but even then I knew it's hard to haunt when you don't even care
the truth is I have never thought we would end up like this;
I forgot we weren't a fairytale.