I need you to stop trying to relate to every single thing I have to say. Believe me, you don’t understand, and I can still feel the wounds from where you cut me out of your life. My being marked with guided lines for you to sever, throw to the wayside. Doors swing like the reaper’s scythe, and the days won’t ever matter. I haven’t forgiven you. I should thank you for my loss of pride. I should thank you for my loss of faith. No anchors to weigh me, no chains shackle my feet. No hands to hold me, no gods in the sky.
