Move on.

Just when I think it’s finally over, that you’ve accepted what is, you find a way back into my life. The only place I forgot to block you. The one way you could reach out. The same words typed, over and over, that last plead to change my mind. I cannot continue playing this game. Day after day, nothing has or will changed.

You are not the martyr you believe yourself to be. You don’t deserve pedestals or praise. Repeating the words “I want you to be happy” doesn’t make you the better person. I know what I did. I know I had one foot out the door from the day we met. I know I moved on before letting you go. I will not deny what that makes me, but what I am does not define what you are. You are the result of your own choices, not mine.

There is nothing you can say to change a thing; not my thoughts about you or the state of my wellbeing. See, he gives me everything you never could, even from a million miles away, and that says more about you and me then some falsely intentioned well wishes ever could.

Move on. That’s all I have to say. Take your feelings of regret and channel it into being better for someone else. I am not yours, I never was and never will be. Move on. It’s so much more than too little too late. It was never meant to be.

Move on.

To the boy who filled my heart with lies,

Because of you I found love,

It just happened to be with someone else.

an observation

You know, I’ve always loved people. The way they look. The air they breathe. The rising of a heavy chest. The twisting of an innocent curl. The dimpling of a cheek. The love of a broken heart.
And sometimes, I’ve hated people too. The minds full of darkness. The mouths full of lies.
The love and the hate, an obsession I cannot seem to break. To observe. To write. To love.
The lost and lonely. The found and full. The hopeless and the hopers. The daring and the depleted.
I wish to understand these wild creatures. The simple but complex star beams tethered to this earth by nothing more than a heartbeat.

It is not a sad thought to accept that I never will.
Purely, an observation on the wondrously, occasionally monstrous, diversity of human kind.


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