find me.
If you’re supposed to be another passerby, break me. Break me so that it’d leave me no choice but to pull away.
As sadist as this may seem, breaking points somehow soothe me as suffering does. It’s adding fuel to the fire that pushes me to the limit, only to find pieces of me scattered with no point of return. I was always thinking of ending things, yet it is the idea of you--of us--that made time worth to endure.
I am a living metaphor, a mix of half and full truths, and I’m sorry that I caught you up in my own world of a mess. It is not my intention to make things complicated than what this is now; to be honest, I’m slowly loosing grip of reality. The thought of us somehow made life bearable, as you’re a piece in my prayers that haunts me time and time again.
To my muse, thank you for making me feel alive once again.
present, 09:12 AM.
— a letter from red j., translated to prose.
