ā¤ļø Love ā¤ļø
It was not love.
And it was not obsession.
Something much darker and regressive braided the threads of our individuality together to form a fantastical beast.
But I do not have to play into the fantasy.
Iām actually free, to do as I please.
I was waiting on you
But you never came through
And I was not surprised
Because I knew
You never really cared
About meeting my needs
At all
The thing with āborrowingā, is, well, eventually, you have to give it back. š§
Then what?
Oooof.
It isnāt right to beat a dead horse..
Yet, sometimes you just canāt resist.
The narrator may be unstable, however, the arc that this poem follows is actually very coherent. This is no villain monologue. Thereās no justification and no blame shifting.
Just a field note from an individual with turbulence dependence
