Unknown Confessions (Fictional Diary
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2021-01-14 10:45:34 (UTC)

His Broken Pieces (fictional diary)

He had a tongue of silver, and lips of honey drenched gold. I could see it in his eyes, from the moment I met him. They were the eyes of the desperate. Eyes that filled with self loathing and guilt. I knew then, it would not end well for us. He spun candy with his voice and extended promises to the world. There are some people you meet, in this vast world, that simply are exceptional. He was one of those. The problem with those types is they give so much so quickly, that they fast find themselves empty.

In many ways, I saw him as my mirror. The reflection of my monster was always in his gaze. Only he peered out through broken jagged pieces that cut with every attempt to stare through those windows. Did he love me? Perhaps. In his own way. But I knew then what I was. I was just the stand in. The entertainment. The proxy. In me he saw the hope of his own destruction. Did I love him? Yes. Even now, I still feel that neglected seed of love nestled in the furthest reaches of my shriveled black heart.

I counted the days when he was gone. I count the hours, the minutes. I counted every tick and tok. How could I not? There was a hole that had been carefully cut out of me. I can’t honestly say when I gave up. Even before I saw him yesterday, I still found myself pausing at the places he favored. He was, in so many ways, my purest form of addiction.

When he came later, I felt the fury rise up in me. How dare he impede my domain? How dare he step within the confines of my home with those sad broken eyes? I sent him away. What else could I do? I haven’t told him about Geo yet. I dread that conversation. Though, I do suppose we always agreed to have a variety of lovers. Of course, Geo is more than that. So very much more. Despite it all, all the grief. The anger. I find myself trapped in a singular thought ‘don’t go. Don’t leave me again’. I hate myself for that. I hate that I don’t want him to go. I loath the fact that I want to pick up all his broken pieces and tenderly put him back together. Regardless of how it might cut to do so.

Rest calls to me. Tomorrow I will write about the mage. When time isn’t so cruel, and when my mind isn’t so consumed.