Untitled #63


I've perfected the art of breaking my own heart. Because I've come to realize that it is easier when I'm the one holding the dagger. When the power is in my hands and I'm watching as the flames slowly die down, no longer dancing in the darkness, but rather being blown out by time, I feel the control seep in through my skin, crawling into the crevices of my head, filling my hollow bones, leaving its essence in the vacant spaces inside of my soul.


My veins are dirty moon lit streets that haven't felt love in so long because my heart has been locked by the keys of too many regrets and doubts to let him touch it. 


His words sting, like the kisses he gently places down my neck. The strings in my throat start to get tangled into knots as he plays me like the strings on his guitar. A beautiful melody to accompany the shattering and breaking of my withering heart, beating desperately against the shouting thoughts draining my mind. 


A repetition of history, the evolution of time, I'm juggling the possibilities while playing Russian Roulette with fate. It may be easier when I'm holding the dagger but it only takes one shot to kill me. It only takes one glance, one touch, one word to shoot me down once more and fall from my castle in the clouds into the whirlwinds of love.