I wrote you letters.

I wrote you letters that tore open my souls to lay at your feet.

Victim to your words that would scupper those pieces into the air.

My vulnerable soul longed for the sanctity of your loving, to be loved and to love, what is love now?

The words would come.

I anticipated it.

But to what extent, and to what affect, I dared breath out for fear of turning fate in on itself.

The words came and struck, struck hard.

The soul lay their barriers down turned to stone as your words peirced my heart.

A sword, an arrow.

Anything would be better than your words.

I’m sorry.

I don’t know how many times I can say this before you tell me to go.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’ve tried. Over and over and over and over.

You will never understand.

This isn’t fair on you.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.