For Your information I am not the person in this crap, it's just some stupid first person story I wrote for the hell of it.
( If you feel like reading it go ahead. _ just don't get those eyes burned by how unbearably and stupidly depressing it is. )
I'm not sure how to feel. It is not happiness or sadness, but a void to which I fall deeper should I decide to dwell on it. Words barely hold value when it comes to naming this unknown invader of emotion. Food has lost its taste behind the wake and drink seems more like ash than a savory refresher. Most of the time, a jagged sphere of screams and wails ensnares itself in my throat, desperate to let loose every little detail securely hidden, stashed, away that could lead to salvation. Stubbornly, I will choke it down once more, plastering a false persona upon my features, pretending that maybe, just maybe, I will be okay. This unsettling emotion still festers through this enemy of a moment within my mind. I cannot help but entertain the idea that when he stepped away, he took something that I direly needed. Unfortunately, that is not a truth to which will ever exist; because I never had anything to begin with. He called me beautiful, when really, I was a hag beneath a maiden's guille. True it is that I am loyal and would never violate the companionship, however, I still do not play the lover's role. He held me close, even when I did not so much as twitch to mimic the same tenderness hidden in his arms. His understanding became my confused misery when I attempted to explain my discomfort involving sexual endeavours. Then, when I finally sorted through my thoughts and re-discovered my fascination with his passion, he cut the thread that bound us as companions. I still keep the letter I received from him on Valentine's Day... with Beautiful written on the front of it. Why did he believe me to be such a false word, when I proved to be nothing but a venomous snake in his pocket?