journal · prose

Decimation (Part Two)

I write into periphery. Converse with toxicity. Seek understanding, but there is no such thing to be had in the company of threadbare memories, mockeries of moments long gone. My rage and despair will never reach you, no matter my medium, and my heart will not stop missing you despite my adamant desire to simply be free of it. The whisper of your name is nothing now but lifeless wish, dead weight upon my lips. Our love was tragedy and we were born to die. We breathed carelessly and loved thoughtlessly. We lived for the high, we crashed hard, we burned ourselves alive. We lived in the moment and for the moment and, when the moment finally came to an end, we found we had nothing left to actually give each other. We were both too broken, too selfish, too consumed by ourselves to to give in earnest. Our addictions destroyed us. We decimated each other.

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