I can still see what feels forgotten. The undeniable lack of response that bears no coherency or responsibility. It was the type of thing that we were never really suppose to talk about, right? This sort of anti-nostalgic reminisce on what has been taken away. The world that was forsaken for convenience.
Thoughtless apparition. The ghosts of what I wish I had just buried. Instead, I insisted on keeping these horrid little pixies in glass jars so I could cover myself in their poison whenever I was alone in the dark and wanted to justify it. I made no silver lined promises. I would never have thought to undermine what had been so carefully forged. I suppose that doesn't matter, because I already made the choice to keep these secrets to myself.
Living in the shadows, feeding off of the pain. That's the easy way out, right? There's no point in denying it. I enjoy hurting. I enjoy lamenting over what I can never have and what was denied from me. Why? Because it's easier to dwell than to forgive.
I would love nothing more than to break the cycle, I would love nothing more than to move on; but it's too hard, and I'm too weak. I'm not you, I'm not a hero. So the bitterness and hate stay like paint on the wall, because I'm afraid to give it up. I'm afraid if I forgive you, that everything would be okay, and I don't know what that would mean.
It's the price that I pay. I know how much of a fool I am, but it's easy to be a fool when your sitting alone in the dark.