If you took a knife and stabbed this notebook, it would bleed. The blood that my soul poured into the pages would trickle out from the sides and run onto the desk until it went over the edge and spilled onto the floor, staining the carpet and making a monument to my suffering. There you would fall to you knees and shed tears to wash the blood away, but even you, the source of my pain, could not repair the damage you've done. Now you sit on the hard wood floor in despair of how you hurt me, ripped me, tore me, crushed me, destroyed me. You hear my foot steps as I walk into the room and you ask, "Is there anything I can do?"1
"No." I answer. You cry again; your pain for mine is burning up what little is left of my heart. My hand gently lifts up your head up to look into my eyes. "Just don't forget who I used to be." Then, when your last tear falls into the palm of my hand, I vanish into nothing and leave you alone in the darkness.2
Author notes
This is actually something I wrote months ago and I just found it amongst the clutter of my desk and decided to type it up here. Comments please.
What did you think? Please comment!
Comments
-
i love this so much. i just dont know what to say, u really no how to get your point across. keep writing.
Abby -
Very emotional and absolutely splendid. It is a deep thoughtful sorrowful and meaningful write. I really liked this a lot. Sorry for your pain but with time your hurt will go away.
-
this is very well written i liked it alot. It is sad and i am sorry that u are hurting. keep writing and thanks for sharing.
take care,
Adding your comment:
