the TWENTY NINTH of DECEMBER, TWO THOUSAND and TWENTY.

i'd kill you with my own two hands if it meant i could purge the toxicity you left in my bloodstream.
if the act of dicing up your already-dead heart would banish the feeling of the way you unloved me, elegance and decay.
thoughts of you that plague my unconsciousness, your delicate, silent assault on all that's left of my sanity.
waves, violent waves of hatred and hurt and pain and your phantom hand around my throat that squeezes tighter and tighter,
just to let me go again. let me escape for a while. yet, you never fail to recapture my breath and start the torture all over again.
your pale, deft fingers. they look so delicate but i know what you did with them. i know exactly what you did.
the perfect cacophony of your facades and your beauty and your malevolence.
as i lay here and rot, i think i'd do it anyway. i can't have you. i want you.

take me back!