I sent my ex
The poem I wrote about him.
Wait, no.
We never dated.
I like to call him that
For my self preservation.
So I sent my friend
Who once fucked me
A shard of my heart
So he can cut his fingers
When he touches it.
Wait, we never even talked.
So I sent a stranger
A sacred secret
About how I continue to love him
Despite his indifference.
He said thanks for sharing.
I sent my vulnerability
To a man who does not care
Licked the envelope closed
Because tortured desire
Is the only type of love I know.
About the Creator
Sara
Don’t look for love.
Be love.
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Message Me Afterwards
>That was a bad idea. I thought you knew… >Oh, the pathos! I don’t really know you as well as I should. In fact, I may not know the real you at all. That essential, sparkling you that you only reveal to a select few. Had I been paying more attention to the stories you are so fond of telling, in which you are invariably author, narrator and protagonist, I would not have been so foolish as to set you up on a blind date. After all, no friend has ever done anything of the kind for another. That’s preposterous. What is a friend, really?
By D. J. Reddall7 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Ouch and completely spot on!