Burn the books that wrote our stories.

Isolation is the preservation of the brand new me, what was once more then life has become only just greater then death, my mind shattered by the everyday routine that faltered,

We hear tales and stories of how to pick up and move on and yet the manifestation of the future you presented me is the blockade that makes me have to travel further back into my own self doubt to find a beaten path that you haven’t yet corrupted,

A partner in crime but I never realised you created an army of self doubt and burned our memories like the fire of Alexandria and left me clinging to the matches as the only evidence that the truth once existed, 

Our history is ashes yet I’m the only one burnt by this charade. 


      • As said by Benett, the last line utterly increased the impact of the lines which on their own were too good. One line and suddenly, it went on another level.
        That last line, it fits for every instance when we feel that we don’t belong somewhere.


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