He said,

I bet you write for the likes.

I bet you write for the shares, the validation found in a virtual thumbs up.

I bet you only love for the sake of material, so much so that you self-sabotage every relationship you’ve ever been in to gain just one more Facebook fan.

I bet you write about every guy whom you meet; whore your words out to anyone who would take them.


You’re wrong.

I write because I’d rather carve words on paper than on skin.

You forget that words can be as sharp as any two-edged sword

but instead of the floor, I’ve found that it is more acceptable to bleed onto paper.


I would give all these words back if I could save myself from all that heartbreak

I would return these perverse creations in a heartbeat for one good shot at being loved.


You think that you mean nothing, that you are just another post on my wall, an allusion in an Instagram post.

Silly boy.

I wrote about you because I knew that I couldn’t keep you.

That no matter what I say or do, you will always say goodbye before sunrise.

I wrote about the fleeting moments that had us in it as an act of defiance against the ephemeral nature of this life.


I wanted to immortalise you on paper and in ink because in time, my memory will betray me.

And I don’t want to to forget


I wrote to keep you alive

for the only way to live forever is to have a writer fall in love with you.


But I don’t blame you.

Like everyone else, you read these words, these emotions like exhibits in a museum of bad examples

You walk through these halls and see my pain on its walls.

And when you are ready, you leave.


No one walks through a museum and asks it if it’s okay.


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