You killed me with your words.
The venom from your lips.
The pain that you inflicted.
By merely doing what you do, by simply being you.
As they say so very often,
Ignorance is bliss.
And bliss it is,
For knowledge is a burden, a dark abyss.
My wish for you is conflicted.
Do I wish to try for that which cannot last, that by the laws of nature is unsurpassed?
Or do I wish for the truth to be?
And I, hidden in the lies, concealed by mystery.
I need so badly to believe
That by the truth I have been deceived,
That you are actually a goal I can achieve.
As much as it kills me to say,
It can be no other way.
I must admit,
You have to be you,
Please cherish it.
I may let you go,
But always know and remember,
It pains me to love you, to let you depart from me.
I thought I needed you, but you ripped my book to shreds, ruining the story by being who you are. Which do I choose? The pages… or you?
(My deepest and sincerest of apologies. I pick the pages. Lies are more comforting than the truth.)
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