I felt sorry for her because I was confident that I won’t be impressive to any man like what she did. I felt sorry for her because I was confident that I'll never be pathetic if I fell hard to the ground. I felt sorry for her because I was confident that my core will never be wrecked. It will be whole and immense like the love I have always given. I thought she'd be miserable. I thought I'd find her sharing depressed verses about love. I thought she'd share the whole thing about her that would cover up her grief. I thought she'd come crying to someone. I said, "I was off-beam. They both made it." And the disputes that I have said slaps me hard in the face repeatedly. I thought I won't be low. I thought I won't find myself sharing depressed verses about love. I thought I won't be writing miserable poetries. I thought I won't be humming desperate, dreamy melodies. I thought I won't cry myself to sleep. I thought I won't come crying to someone. I thought I won't scream. I thought I was numb. I thought I was leading. I thought I could just run away. I thought it'd be easy for me to leave. I thought I do belong. I thought my lungs would let me breathe ceaselessly. She was wrong. Everybody knew. She passed away inside since she fell hard to the ground. SHARE THIS ARTICLE: |
Esthete:
'es-theet' (n.) A person who affects great love of art, music, poetry, etc., and indifference to practical matters. El Esthete or The Aesthete in English, is where I share my Literary works, artworks, and everything else in between. Categories:
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