i can’t destroy what isn’t there

They never knew you to be diabolical.
At least not until they wooed you with flowers that turned to ash with your touch. Not until they realized the knell only tolled when you stepped out in the sun. Not until they saw you speak to the walls of the church and watched the stone crumble to your feet.
I know that, though. I’ve known you for months.
I know you’ve tried to fill the gaps you felt in your ribs and map out every vein with a compass. You’ve waited for echoes that lost themselves like little birds. You’ve searched for solace with your gypsy eyes but never divined any answers. You’ve watched clocks strike hours till the gongs were nothing but endless reminders of emptiness. You’ve longed for those razor blades to feel like home.

There are secrets – written under your fingertips – that only the wallpaper in your room can read; that the coins at the bottom of the fountain are weighed down with; that the bouquets forgotten in the cemetery are surviving on; that only the mirrors in your bathroom respond to by shattering.
But one secret I buried in the swamps you made of my heart:
There are scratches on the sarcophagus of your soul, screaming, “Let me out!”, but nobody can read the cuts on your wrists.
Or maybe, nobody cares.
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