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The Write Kind of Wrong.

I used to carve my love in stone, Dotting my I’s with blood, and crossing my T’s with tears. Your hold – it bounded my heart squeezing the very life out of me, And my obsession for you left me spineless. The epic novels I once wrote about us turned into horror stories, Until there was nothing left but a fictional tale of the effort you used to make. Ever since then, I’ve had to dig deep. For something, anything, to keep the ink flowing and the story going. Searching through the archives of my mind, flipping through tattered pages of a relationship I hoped never to retell. Forcing myself to remember without regretting. You were the antagonizer I couldn’t bare to write off, And we were the story that had run its course, but I just couldn’t end. “You don’t write about love as much,” a friend of mine said. It’s not that I don’t love as much. I just haven’t found a story worth telling.

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