If there was any doubt whether there exists a beating heart in this chest, the wretched pain you see in me from watching you fall in love should be enough to prove otherwise. Like a clumsy moth you beat against the meagre flame that is my soul and leave your dust inside me—it pollutes me.
You know... I can feel you.
Every motion, every eye blink and intake of breath turned into a game of mirrors with your shadow mimicking mine. Alas, when I look, chancing to catch those bright chameleon eyes, your head turns away.
It cannot be both. You are mine, or you are not.
I call myself too good to play this fucking game of yours, yet here I sit, the caustic fool putting pen to paper in the twisted parody of a love letter.
Oh, that my words were spikes I could drive deep to carve my name onto your bones. Instead, I dull their sharp edges on my own flesh and sit here a wounded thing, unable even to rail at the villainous treason of my own heart.
