She was older than old, ages of years – without any wrinkle. Her voice was her envy and it was loud: day in and day out and through every night without an exception.
Her main concern – however – was to come first.
She smelled, I remember, disgusting. She smelled like old ink that never was spilled but always preserved. She stank like a tiny and black and mummified heart that is wrapped in a dress made of dust.
She smelled as if she’d never ever could possibly rot.
Her name, though, was love. I killed her last night. Some warned me I would not survive her. But action is how one proves people wrong. No more does anyone knock on my rips from inside. And, which is more: no one will ever again. No longer have I to feel like a dungeon that’s supposed to look after those it surrounds. I broke myself, thus I broke free. Whom I broke free are those within me.
Whatever may beg to be back in the future – I’ll stay happy of loss.
Now: go in and go out as you please. Just if you like leave a comment to me. But not on the walls out of flesh! We have mouths and can speak. Since dark is my blood now. No one will ever correct like a teacher misspellings I’ve done.
For writing is not to be shared.
My blood is my own and does not belong to a race; or a group; or a friend; or a hope. It serves only me and touches nothing but paper. Never again I will write red on red: I can write now, and read what I wrote. Sometimes for life a murder must happen within us.
Sometimes for life love has to die.