thx snackson

Basement.

Plans penned in permanent ink on the soles of my feet that you decided weren’t worth keeping for more than a fleeting moment. I wrote until my fingers blistered and my wrists broke, searching for reasons why you did this to us. I still can’t decipher. When you took me into the basement that one night and begged me to stay, I cried. You cried too, the most tears I’ve felt in years, each drop falling at my feet, creating the illusion that I had the power to change, build or break us. In hindsight I realize that when you took my hands in yours, you began to break each finger, bone by bone. As it turns out, you were the one to draw your gun first. Like persephone, you cried for the darkness that filled your head, using it to drown me in the thick, airless ink. You begged me to stay, carelessly knowing you’d be the first one to pull the trigger. I didn’t know of death until you taught me.