My dearest, my darling, my love. You who are so pure, so sweet, you make me vulnerable in a way that makes me feel good. Whole. You make me feel like I could be pure too. But darling, I know what I am.
I am a stained rag, I'm forsaken ... right?
But I forget myself when I'm with you. I feel healed and glorious when I'm with you. I want to know why in the cosmos would you be the one to love me.
You say that you are an atheist, but become religious suddenly when you speak with me. You worship me, you say that I am your God. You would raise a shrine in my honour, whisper prayers into my ears. You say that I'm your beautiful deity of love, of need.
Blasphemy, I am no god.
I am anger and fire, unholy passion runs through my veins. The only thing considered immortal of me is my misery. My sour, bitter torment.
But I am nothing. Nothing, compared to you. Nothing without you.
My patron, my guide, my prophet, my priest.
YOU ARE READING
Cerulean
Non-FictionMy thoughts, depression and short stories need a place to stay. (Trigger Warning: may potentially contain explicit content such as depression, suicide, substance abuse, etc.)
