𝙰𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚊

Nothing touches it now. Not laughter, not the warmth of a touch, not the pull of any dream. If I can’t soar that high again, what’s the point of this gray, unloving existence?

So I hunt it in bottles, in pills, in the sharp inhale of smoke, every forbidden door that promises light.

Just a little more. Just to feel whole. Just to compete with that highest high.

An unnatural spark of fulfillment, a temporary crown of greatness this is all I search for now. I used to want so much more. I can’t even remember what anymore.

I want the reality of you, not the concept. Concepts don't have fierce care, or heavy thoughts, or tempers that prove they are alive. Your soul is still pure, deep, and beautiful, even with your anger. Give me the parts of you that you think are too loud. If you could see yourself through my eyes you would see that the cracks are exactly where the light gets in.

I wish to be pure again untouched, unscarred, the small girl who still believed the world was gentle. Now only disappointment remains, a cracked mirror I keep turning away from. I am becoming the man I despised, slowly learning to understand the actions that once made me sob into my pillow at night. Maybe I am just like him. Or maybe the blood was never the blame only an easy excuse for mistakes I called inheritance.