Southern free spirit living in NYC.
Today I was sitting, thinking about how if you ever asked, I’d tell you, you were a mistake. Not the kind of mistake you’d take back, rewind and never repeat, but the kind of mistake that makes you sorry and sick at the same time. The love we knew was rare and I don’t know that it ever existed alone. I never knew that love and sadness could be so indistinguishable till I met you. I wanted you so much it hurt, and you wanted a love without audience, one without breath. You showed me the kind of love that was unsustainable and destructive, one that suffocated and never came up for air. And in the end, when pain won and love was weak, you finally understood how love and pain were the same. But you fought hard to bring them both back in a way I couldn’t bear, and somewhere along the way you lost love altogether. You fought with pain and won a war that only ever knew one side. You are weakness, and the mistake you’ve become burned bridges that can’t be rebuilt.
