I kept all the letters you wrote me. The letters that were filled with your love, love as warm as a long awaited embrace. the paragraphs that helped me get through the days that passed. Those letters were my namesake, and those letters assured me that you were mine. You built me palaces out of paragraphs. They were special, they were raw—they were yours.
In each paragraph you wrote, my love for you grew deeper. I was so sure that you were the one.
Each night passed by easily, all because of the words you had written. I thought that your words were filled with promise, I thought that you were truly mine. Yet how did it only take one night?
One night.
One night for you to tear it all apart. It took only one night for those words, once intertwined with a warm embrace to manifest into a wretched lie.
In that one night, you were nothing more than an Icarus who had flown too close to the sun. In your greed for the clearing of your name, you have ruined my life, you have ruined our lives.
The letters that I once deemed special to me, turned out to be one of your many vicious lies. Your sentences now border on senseless, and your letters now tainted with deceit. I started to reread the same letters that made me love you, trying to find any traces, any signs that you were still mine.
Soon, it all started to burn. The letters, the paragraphs, the poems, our love, everything I once deemed special, soon became piles of ash and decay. The fire didn't just take away my love for you—it took away my world. I started to erase myself from your narrative, letting them wonder how I reacted when I broke through your lie. They have no right to see me break, they have no right to see me ruined, they have no right to see me cry.
You took pride in yourself for your writing. You took pride in romance, you took pride in being mine. Yet just like your writing—I hope it all burns. I hope that you burn.
