You have broken me in a way I will never be able to repair. You do not get to speak my name. And, frankly, the next time you try, I hope you choke on the words.

I do not believe you. I do not believe in you. I will pray for you, however, because it seems no one else will. You’ve burned all your bridges, and now they’ll laugh at you from heaven, while you burn alone, and the blackness beckons.

We were not us. I was us. Alone. And you were somewhere very far, speaking with Narcissus and Icarus, careless, oblivious and sickeningly satisfied with little, hollow things.

Little hollow things
Empty
Empty