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    These are the things I no longer wish to understand;



    One: You believe the lies you want to hear.

    The fairytales I’ve been gorged with all this time have become so real to me that I find comfort in pretending, as often as possible, that they are true. While the supposed reality leaches out and curdles the people around me, I sit in the kitchen with the record player as loud as it’ll go, swirling a finger in my tea, not feeling the burn.



    Two: You must kill your darlings.

    It applies to so much more than writing.



    When I waft into my tiny gray backyard, the wilting poppy flower catches my eye, sitting anguished in its miserable little black pot. I touch a soft scarlet petal, a wavering hope, a velleity, a Molotov cocktail waiting to catch, and I know I tried too hard.



    Three: You think you know someone even when they’re gone. You only regret their return when you see what they’ve become.

    I watch the spinning record and all I see is your ebony hair, winding around my wrist, herbal scent shrouding my thoughts.



    Four: Sometimes your darlings are better off dead.

    So much has happened that shouldn’t have. I close my eyes and try to remember who I used to be.



    Five: I will never be able to forget you.

    I made you matter too much and it’s selfish and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be.

    Even though you are gone for good, now, your remains still contaminate me, like drops of mercury – potentially poisonous, yet always oozing away through my fingers.



    You couldn’t bear to live in a world with me, but I cannot fathom my existence without you. And though you will hate me for it I can do nothing but cut out the ropes, and let myself fall into the wreckage you have caused.



    Six: You were a monster and I loved you for it.

    You caged me and killed me and spun me into gold, the sweetness of your creation trilling in your cathartic murmur. You wove me into your puppeteer stories and I knew only the rapture of being part of your lies.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

    These are the things I no longer wish to understand;



    One: You believe the lies you want to hear.

    The fairytales I’ve been gorged with all this time have become so real to me that I find comfort in pretending, as often as possible, that they are true. While the supposed reality leaches out and curdles the people around me, I sit in the kitchen with the record player as loud as it’ll go, swirling a finger in my tea, not feeling the burn.



    Two: You must kill your darlings.

    It applies to so much more than writing.



    When I waft into my tiny gray backyard, the wilting poppy flower catches my eye, sitting anguished in its miserable little black pot. I touch a soft scarlet petal, a wavering hope, a velleity, a Molotov cocktail waiting to catch, and I know I tried too hard.



    Three: You think you know someone even when they’re gone. You only regret their return when you see what they’ve become.

    I watch the spinning record and all I see is your ebony hair, winding around my wrist, herbal scent shrouding my thoughts.



    Four: Sometimes your darlings are better off dead.

    So much has happened that shouldn’t have. I close my eyes and try to remember who I used to be.



    Five: I will never be able to forget you.

    I made you matter too much and it’s selfish and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be.

    Even though you are gone for good, now, your remains still contaminate me, like drops of mercury – potentially poisonous, yet always oozing away through my fingers.



    You couldn’t bear to live in a world with me, but I cannot fathom my existence without you. And though you will hate me for it I can do nothing but cut out the ropes, and let myself fall into the wreckage you have caused.



    Six: You were a monster and I loved you for it.

    You caged me and killed me and spun me into gold, the sweetness of your creation trilling in your cathartic murmur. You wove me into your puppeteer stories and I knew only the rapture of being part of your lies.