tonight, i harbor the heart of my mother and my fingertips are jaded with the fleshy remains of the finer things in life. they’ve all since escaped me, and the only thing i’m yet to destroy is the tongue i use to twice curse you with.
thoughts and perceptions that you have never and will never love me cloud my ears, and a distant ringing unveils itself as the voice of reason, reasoning with me to just stop thinking. i don’t. i continue to torture myself with sinister whisperings that i’ll never be loved, that i wasn’t born to love and your non-reciprocation is merely a string in a series of unrequited love that i am yet to experience.

“sometimes broken men with crooked fingers will touch you and try to convince you that you are bruised. they will leave you on your knees armed with dust pan and brush sweeping charred remains of your flesh, making careful sure not to accidentally touch them, as they were now sordid and impure. they will tell you that although they would once cross proverbial rivers and dot a lifetime of neglected i’s, to touch you, you were now unlovable, undesirable and you will lick your tears with contempt. fear not, the jaded man with scarred hands leaves scars on your mind if you let him, and never on your body that he touched like a poison. only if you let him, darling.”

i do not want any man to fall in love.

“i do not want any man to fall in love with me and convince himself that I am perfect, virtuous and void of devils fruits. I do not want his heart to break or his mouth to quiver at my own expense once he realises that I am none of these things, and my subtle giggles, tight kisses and arm brushes were merely programmed by all of the romantic comedies I had seen.”