I guess now, the night we met is just a memory—
a self-portrait without ****** features,
Only streaks where tears once ran, as the image
is so blurry, but I still see myself
Running back to you… _too easily_.
It’s such a sad picture— an enigma, half-painted
with eager thoughts quietly bleeding
Into the ink of doubt, each brushstroke pulling me
further from the truth I never wanted to name
Now it just hangs… _so awkwardly crooked_
You left me walking alone in this gallery
_of only terrible memories._
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 3:01 PM UTC
I guess now, the night we met is just a memory—
a self-portrait without ****** features,
Only streaks where tears once ran, as the image
is so blurry, but I still see myself
Running back to you… _too easily_.
It’s such a sad picture— an enigma, half-painted
with eager thoughts quietly bleeding
Into the ink of doubt, each brushstroke pulling me
further from the truth I never wanted to name
Now it just hangs… _so awkwardly crooked_
You left me walking alone in this gallery
_of only terrible memories._
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