Forget all that I have said.

Leave me your cold unforgiving heart. Let it bleed over my palm and let it cease amongst my fingertips. I feel no remorse as I squeeze out your life, I feel only the slip of the blood against my nails.

I see you run ruby red over my pale skin. And I despise your vibrant colors; disturbing my peace.

Out! Out I say! Your reverence brings me to tears and tears of tissue and sinew. I cannot breathe through your heavy, present, atmosphere, you are more there than I can bear. You are so loud! Loud against my skull and skin. And I feel you as I feel my fingers finding things in the darkest parts of our hearts that I grip and hold.

Begone! Let me know you no more. Let my peace alone, and go.

But leave me your heart.

"Don't forget me, when you leave."

I have left you,

Again.

I am a terrible lover, with passions burning bright and fierce, but I never take advantage of my fires. Instead; I let them roam wild and free over the plains of my chest. Burning their way into the valleys of my belly and roaring over the landscape of my heart. I breathe only smoke, and it tastes like desire.

But I let your fires die. I let the lust and love that created you fade away. So powerful were you, burning up my insides, that I did not think you could wane. I turned away from you, and let myself forget you,

Again.

For three months I will keep the charred remains. Their black and chalky appearance will revolt me, and I will walk away, disgusted that I have let another one burn. But one day, one day soon, I will return to you, and pick you up and hold you close. And I will not mourn a loss, but marvel at the possibility of rebirth.

And in that, I will never forget you.

Should a surgeon open up my heart, he would find a smaller version of you, sewn into the sides. He would find lazy stitches in an uneven pattern that secure you to me. And he would shake his head at my sloppy work, but he would soon discover that my stitches are fast, and that you shall not be removed.

I will not forget you, above all this I promise.

I will take you up and and sew you into my heart. In a tiny little corner, where the memories won't take up much room, will be a permanent reminder of things gone past. It will become a part of me, so that we should never be parted.

And if in time we grow distant, or the edges of my memories become hazy, I shall still be able to open up my heart and see you locked so securely in that corner. For there is nothing so sweet as you now, and I wish to never forget.

Que sera sera

I can't accept that what I do is entirely incorrect. While I will take that every so often we all slip and fall, I refuse to believe that innocent actions in any circumstances can be anything but. I am but who I have grown into, and if the way I place my feet on the ground in the mornings offends, I do not apologise, they are but the way they are.

It would appear that I am cruel, but in truth, and am saying only what comes most naturally to me. The world is too big of a place for everyone to get along, and I have never once believed otherwise. If that is the way that it shall be, then so be it.

A Blatant Promise

It'll be a thousand times before I remember you. Softly creeping in the back of my thoughts, I do not see you, but you are there. You are beautiful, in words I cannot find to describe. You are a world apart, and in yourself you are more amazing that I dare comprehend. To remember would be difficult, and I am feeble.

But in the morn, I will awake, and I will seek you out. Because I am reminded of your unerring strength and bliss. And I will feel you beneath my fingers, perfect and whole, and beautiful.

I find, I keep, I sit.

Too many of these posts are appologies! I feel as if that is all I can say.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

I record those words and play them in a continual loop that serves as my theme song.

I'm sorry!

I'm sorry I'm not good enough, I'm sorry I forget, I'm sorry I am lazy and sluggish, I'm sorry I cannot be what it is that I imagined when I was young.

If six years ago I read these posts, would I understand? Would I forgive my future self for all my misgivings and failings? Would my pretty words make up for the things I lack?

I find, I keep, I sit, I appologise.

If even I cannot forgive me, then how do I expect anyone else to take my words seriously?