Jun. 16, 2003 - 11:57 p.m.
It speaks to the soul and wounds my heart, these words with which you have gifted me. They turn your love into song and your bitterness into poetry.
Each phrase you penned makes me grieve anew. It burns like acid, and I hang my head in shame. Another page and I will surely be crushed beneath the weight of your words: biting, slashing, stinging words that devour me.
No cries break the silence, but my tears wash away your spell, smudging the ink and reducing your words to stained marks upon a white, lined page.
And although I can once again breathe, my wounds are reopened and fresh. The old ache has returned, and each time it grows harder to forget.
And harder to find the tears that will wash away this pain.
