stark contrast to the image of a lone flower in a field of manure, the illusion of necessity and caring. stolen oxygen, replacing it with smoke. stolen dreams, exposed monstruosity.
in the wake of terror, i hold on to the image of your arms cut like a dish of ratatouille, which somehow brings peace as it humanizes unfathomable pain. you, as an encarnate expression of human suffering, compelled me, as to give in all i had, to believe i could never want anything else, to paint a picture of my future i could never want.
you, as a tangible representation of my conceived notion of perfection, made me endlessly numb to what reality could mean. i hold on to the image of your hands as you showed yourself vulnerable to me, while reminding myself i was never the one you held closest. what hurts the most is not the loss but the realisation that you never gave your time as i gave mine.
stark contrast to the image of a lone flower in a field of manure, you're but a clever squirrel trying to survive in a forest of predators, who believed i could never warrant your time because i was ever but a meaningless, harmless, defenseless rat.