I still write about you. You can laugh about it with your friends. Congratulate yourself on the marks you left while walking away unscathed.  Another heart conquered and tossed aside.  I guess I joined the club.

Yes. I still write about you.  Not because I want to, but because you refuse to leave. Every part of me is still tainted with the shades of you; our names etched on the cubicle walls of my soul.

It’s odd how we won’t let go when neither of us is holding on.

I still write about you but I write to be free. I purge my heart on to the page, my words like thousands of little pieces of shrapnel picked out of my flesh. These words will bleed out every drop of you until I’m wrung out, and there’s nothing of you left.

I will still write about you until I’ve penned you out of my existence.

I will never be done writing about you.  



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