You want the best for me, you say. As if you weren’t the one to break me in the first place. The one who tore my already bleeding scars open, just to see how much deeper you could go. Cursing, digging, stabbing. Until you found a spot no one would dare look and buried it there. It ate me alive. Rotted my insides. Caused my skeleton to collapse. Utter blackness, nothing left.
You want to help me, you say. As if I haven’t begged you to give me space. Give me time to breathe. To fill my lungs back up, because by now they have turned into small dry raisins.
You would do anything, you say. Except for giving me the closure that I need. Because your discomfort with the truth is the greatest agony.
I guess you want the best for me on your terms only. And not if it will cause your Dreamworld to crumble. I can’t blame you. I don’t know how soul crushing that would feel. I never got to build one.


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