My Hidden Lives // Prose

29. about letting you go

breton2_be silent


Sometimes now, if I feel senile or Christian enough, I lull myself into forgiveness – for me, for him, for us. And when I think I could love him again just because I’ve been able to hold onto my hate for so long (such a long time, now) – the levee of insanity breaks and tears my memory apart. Madness is sometimes kind. I find only our worst moments beneath the rubble of others, and decide to keep hating  instead.


breton1_autumn again


You think, therefore you are.

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