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You visit me in my dreams. Haunt might be a better word. I want to banish you but there is no exorcism for love. You said you’d never leave me but I didn’t think this is what you meant. How long does it take to wash fingerprints off a soul?
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They say you aren’t your thoughts but who am I if not these thoughts? I feel trapped in my own mind. It’s a prison I lost the key to years ago. There is a war raging in my soul and I forgot whose side I’m on. You tell me that the fight is worth it but what am I fighting for?
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You ask and my heart aches to answer. An invitation that I must resist. I want to unburden myself of these thoughts but it’s too dangerous. The relief could never outweigh the consequences. Who knows what happens if I give life to the thoughts in my head. Better to keep the war inside than to shoot innocent bystanders.
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What if I spilled my guts? Unfiltered thoughts spoken into existence. I want to bare my soul but I’m afraid you’d flinch. What hurts worse, a secret or the truth?
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I confess my sins. Instead of absolving me you condemn me to hell. The word “whore” forever branded on my soul. You were supposed to be my salvation but I made a deal with the devil that you can’t get me out of. A night of bliss for a lifetime of damnation.
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I want to talk to you but there’s nothing I can say that doesn’t sound like me begging for your attention. It used to be so easy but now the small talk stabs me in the heart. How long does it take to go from lovers to strangers?
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You stabbed me and then got mad at the blood on the sheets.
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I feel myself falling into the pit again. I don’t know if I have the strength to claw my way out. Maybe I’ll sit here for a while. The pit has a strange sort of comfort. A familiarity that brings a sort of peace. The darkness knows my secrets but stays anyway.
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The storm brings me a comfort that nothing else can. The roar of the thunder echos my soul. The downpour of the rain is a release I cannot feel but so desperately need. The lightning burns like my throat and the words I choke on. Mother Nature knows rage better than anyone.
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I want to write pretty words but all my words are dripping in depression. They are soaked in tears. They scream to be heard but the paper is the only one who listens. The words are ripped from my fingers, flung out of my mind. It is a violent thing. There is nothing pretty about the words that need to spill out of me.
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Writing advice:
Love what you write.
I promise you, if you manage this one thing, the rest will take care of itself. If you truly love what you write, you'll do everything in your power to make it the best it can be.
And you will succeed.
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The urge to bother my mutuals
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I’m writing poetry and I don’t know if that means I’m getting better or worse.
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Reblog this if it’s okay to DM you and shoot the friendship shot.
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List of “angry confession” prompts
“Since when did you ever care about me?!” “Since fucking forever, you idiotic dunce!” 
“I can’t leave you alone for one second without you hurting yourself, can I?” “I mean, I’m fine so it’s okay—” “No, it’s not okay. Not when I feel like I’m going to go batshit fucking crazy, thinking you’ve hurt yourself.“
“Well, I’m sorry I fell in love with you, okay? But it happened and I can’t do shit about it.” “You… What?” 
“You think I wanted this to happen? You think I, of all people, wanted to fall in love with you?” 
“Trust me, I’m also trying to understand how in the shit this happened.” 
“…This is why I knew I shouldn’t have gotten close to you.”
“I’m going to need you to stop for one second because I just find it so incredibly rude that you think I’m not head over heels in love with your stupid, oblivious ass. Are you a brick? Because you’re dense as fuck.”
“Tell me how I’m supposed to un-love you, then. Tell me. Spare me.” 
“Yeah, well, if I could, I’d lose feelings for you. But it’s not that easy. It’s not that easy to just let go of someone you’ve held onto for so fucking long.” 
“What part of ‘I want you, and only you’ do you not understand?” 
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“It sounds plausible enough tonight, but wait until tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning.”
— H.G. Wells
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