The thought of you makes me physically ill. Knots in my stomach and hurt that slowly and pointedly kills.

You don’t know what you want so you string along all the puppets you can string. You are a sociopath

with a lust for things.

Pretty things that float sickly in your jars. Say pretty things to coax out our hearts.

I see you. I don’t think you even realize what you say isn’t true.

I just want rot for you, now.

I wanted to be better but I suppose I’m not.

I want it all to keep crashing down around you; the way you will inevitably bring it. 

I don’t know when I became a mean girl, I don’t really care anymore. I’ve long since been spurned enough that I don’t care about your heart, dirty and worn.

You say so many pretty things and I used to believe them. Eat them up like they were an elixir. Eat them up like I won’t be just another “her”.

But I don’t have a soft heart anymore and I don’t know when that came to be. Maybe it was when you fucked me over again and again, maybe.

I don’t have good wishes for you like I used to. I don’t have a good heart like you knew.

Take your oozing hearts, bleeding in those pickled jars, watch the reflection crumble into nothing. You are nothing. You made us nothing.

You don’t deserve a thing. I hope misery is all you find from those dried out heartstrings.


One thought on “Sick. 

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