Ghosts of your stories are breathing in the fire /
I am sad just like every other person tells you, the only difference is I don’t complain about my life rather there are  raged ghosts suppressed deep inside me, feeding on my sanity and slowly  sucking the life out of me because of  things which weren’t supposed to go wrong. I don’t claim to be broken, I prefer to call myself scarred for I have burned in self-vacillation for years now. Yes, I can heal if I want to but I don’t have immense emotional energy in me to try and little of which is left I need it for my “routined life.”

You hold the key to the light of your life /
You tell me that you’ll always be with me, that we are in this together. I believe you because you treat me well, hold my hand when I’m cold, we fall asleep at night talking to each other on call. You preach about light of one’s life and the key to it but I reckon I have found it, in you to be more precise it’s you. You also write poetry about me and make me feel like a goddess. I start to think I am in love with you so I tell you everything, everything you ask me about my life, my darkest of secrets, my ghosts. I open my scar for you to perform a autopsy of my soul and I think I feel no pain because I’m so in love with you. I let you dig deeper and bring out the tiniest of things from within me till there’s nothing left and you write more about me? On me?

Oh but you lie it got too hazy in the comfort of your love /
It’s been a while and things are quite different now. Your eyes seem so cold and your words are distant. Is it your guilt or is it my inculpating eyes gawking at you wanting justifications for why you lied? It hurts to think how you plump out the bloody scarps of horror and misery from my soul just to make it look like yours. It breaks my heart as you place these scraps so carefully in between the words of your labrynthine poetry to portray the persona of a heartbroken and lost writer because people like a sad writer more and you can’t fit in that character because you never experienced misery. It amazes me how cleverly you vended my soul and vulnerability to prevent the death of your not-so-thoughtful “poetry” and I did not realise any of that because I was so hazed by the idea of what you described as love.

Song:- Ghosts of Your Stories by Short Round https://open.spotify.com/track/29sUqcYMA5X3QRQORarmMR?si=YguPNfjqRhSZeoyhZlfT9Q {PS. this song is the one I ranted about so yeah it was basically my inspiration for writing this piece :)}