Dear,
It's taken so many attempts to get to this stage, where I've finally gotten an idea of what I want to say - where I finally understand how best to say it. I never could understand why I always wrote about you. You've forsaken me in so many ways but I could never seem to return the favour.
You see, perhaps the reason I hate the thought that I mean nothing to you is because I have so little of what we had left. I don't just want our past to just disappear into the aether. You can't just white-wash the memories and replace the furniture, because the bloodstains are still visible on the carpet and they will get noticed sooner or later.
I'm tired of twisiting emotions and words, and I'm tired of changing a sentence out of all recognition until you don't even realise what I'm trying to say so desperately to you. The simplest of lines can often sound so awkward and forced, but this is the last time I'll contort such words for our sakes. From now on, I'll be pure and unadulterated.
Can't you see? This isn't -
She couldn't bear the words that fell so uncomfortably close to the truth, so she folded the letter neatly, and left it in a drawer to rot.
















Devious Comments
Comments
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A Flower does not Bloom to be thanked for its Blossom.
-quoth the Raven.
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A Flower does not Bloom to be thanked for its Blossom.
-quoth the Raven.
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A Flower does not Bloom to be thanked for its Blossom.
-quoth the Raven.
PS. muse, muse, muse
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~ Ben
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" ... when artists are working directly from their emerging consciousness, their art is their most honest mirror." Carolyn Mary Kleefeld
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" ... when artists are working directly from their emerging consciousness, their art is their most honest mirror." Carolyn Mary Kleefeld
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