This piece was meant to be cathartic, and giving it an introduction would make it far too long.
We were the love that never made it past the finish line. The kind of love that I’d always dreamed of, and yet once I was in between your, no, our dirty laundry I suddenly was ready to let the fleeting recklessness pass me by. With you and I there was no in between, there was no outside, there was just you, and in the twilight hours, just me. We were so burnt, a match that had flames flirting destructively with everything in my life. Yet, I was freezing. There seemed to be no right, no wrong, just raw emotion, destruction and even creation. There were no tears, only fights, no wrongs, only rights, and yet when I left you we stopped going backwards together and started moving forwards alone. It’s such an old tragedy, a romance meant to wither in the yellowed pages of a schoolgirls diary, and yet we managed to burn while burning and being burnt, and in the middle of this flaming desert in the crossroads of right and wrong, I couldn’t stop being cold. Freezing. I left you with burns and yet I remain so cold. Like a moth to a flame, I guess I’ll never stop feeling cold until I’ve fed the fire with every bone in my body. I’m frigid as I dance with the stranger at the party I went to tonight. I’m desperate for cheap warmth when the stranger is twirling me, steadying me, burning me. I don’t even care for whoever (s)he is, my mind is on the more appealing strangeness I’ll be seeing tomorrow. I wish I could be the girl who falls for the arms that sketched her in the back of a notebook. I pretended not to see him sketching, because to him everything is art, and I can only set art on fire. I wish I wasn’t so burnt by you, but to be completely fair- I burnt you too.
xo Queertastic ❤