You told me I was special. That I was the most important thing in the world to you. That everyday when the demons come to play in your sick, fragile mind, I can chase them out with only my smile.

“You’re the best mistake I ever made.” You’d say, planting sweet kisses to my cheeks.

I don’t think you realised how funny that sounded. How that word would sliver and tangle itself within and darken my image of you. Chipping away at that angelic haze given only to the people I worship, because how can a mistake be something good? How can a mistake be seen as anything other than a mistake?