make a minimum of 20 posts a day, be annoying as fuck, repeat things you said a few weeks ago, destroy your follower’s dashboards, never kill yourself
I needed to read this today. Thank you. I will now be annoying as fuck and keep posting cause it makes the haters mad.
Kat, you'll never read this. And if you do, it's cause I'm dead and you got the unfortunate luck of getting my journal.
So, for starters? Fuck you. Fuck you for making me feel. Making me hope. Making me dare to dream. You don't love me. You love what I made YOU feel. Desire. Longing. You chose a beige sweater, a wet blanket, when you could've had fire. Heat. Warmth and passion. You're gonna spend the rest of your life wondering why you chose safety over wildfire. But y'know what? That's okay, you weren't built to handle my heat anyway.
I hate you, and I love you. Even after all this time, you confuse and irritate me, and make my dead little heart do somersaults in my chest.
Years from now, when your kids are asleep and your husband is snoring in the next room over, you'll be sitting there, glass of wine in hand. You'll ache to know what might've been. That ache? That's my parting gift to you. Because I gave you EVERYTHING. My heart, my soul and the chips and cracks in my armor. And you saw it as optional. But guess what? It's okay.
The best part? What we had was REAL. Not beige. Not safety. A firestorm. And I'll keep burning bright, living hard and hot, and you'll be simmering and unsatisfied. Keep your fucking bland beige bitch boytoy of yours. I'll be burning the world to ash and laughing, with someone who enjoys and loves the flames.
So here's to you, Kirstan.
To what could've been.
To what should've been.
And here's to me.
The wildfire that set your thoughts like dry kindling.
And a love that tastes like smoke and leaves a lovely little burn scar.
–Laments of a Love-Starved Whore