There is a letter on my bedside table.

It has ink splatters and torn edges,

And sentences that run onto one-another.

I cannot read the words anymore.

My vision is blurry.

I’m sitting on my floor, holding

The remains of childish hope.

It feels like pieces of glass,

Scratching me along the lines on my palms,

Destroying fate with violent passion.

I cannot breathe.

The air is filled with a familiar scent.

It chokes me.

Tired, I lay my hands flat on the ground,

Let the blood stain the marble,

Give myself to reality,


Let it take control

Until it finally saves me.


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