I’ll sit back and enjoy your struggle. Laugh when you ask for help. I listen to too many true crime podcasts - my pod library is full of it. I am so broken that I don’t know what it’s like to be whole anymore. I’d listen to you, but honestly, I don’t care. I can read you like an open book, but there are a lot of aspects which I am closed off. I’ll get bored of you, and eventually, it’ll fizzle out. And I’ll probably ghost. I’m good at forgetting you exist, honestly. I don’t go out or socialize. Hell, you have to bribe me to come see you. Open a door to your soul, and I’ll tear it out of you. I’ll rip your heart out and eat it with a smile on my face. I’m cool and aloof, but also needy at the same time. I fall asleep to the stolen dreams of exes. Share with me your secrets, and I’ll show you every broken heart I’ve left behind. My trail of hearts. I write spells and poetry in pen; I write in the margins of books, but in pencil. But I’ll write on your skin with fiery hands and burning fingers, trace constellations on your skin that won’t go away, so others after me will see you were mine at one point. I’ll crawl into your skin and make my home within the cage of your ribs before randomly leaving, and leaving you empty. I’ll kiss you with my eyes open. I’ll spend time with you while planning all the ways I would leave you within the next few weeks. I’ll have you thinking about me all the time, can’t get me out of your head, my scent lingering on your skin for days, the smell of my shampoo on your pillows for weeks before fading away, lasting longer than you and I did. You’ll want me back, but I’ll be long gone, moved on by two people, before you realize I’m never coming back. Plus, I’m a strong, independent person. I don’t need people. I survive, live better on my own. I sneer at anyone who says they want to “get serious” with me. I’m not the serious type. Don’t try to change my mind. I’ll break your heart until there is nothing left to break.
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