I wrote a poem about it, and then threw it away, because that’s the last thing I need right now: More words dedicated to people who will never dedicate a single thing to me.
We waste so many days waiting for weekend. So many nights wanting morning. Our lust for future comfort is the biggest thief of life.
"Everyone told her that she was nothing but a monster, so she became one."
“I helped create her, yet she helped destroy me.”