And in that moment, I knew I had zero chance. I thought I had it, it was right there but just like a bird being my prey, it flew the fuck away. What do I have to do find a love worth writing for? Tell me. All you artists with empty canvasses and light words carry nothing but the fake “art” you make. Art is vivid, art is killer, art will fuck you up and make you alive at the same time. I take a step, cautiously as if to avoid my own stumble but as I walk it gets harder and harder not to fall for you. Maybe these are words you’ll never hear, maybe you’ll read them somewhere when I’m gone and maybe you’ll read them when you know how much it hurts when you told me that you still have feelings for him. In poetry, in art, I will immortalize you as the one who let me go, as the one who turned my heart to ashes and froze my face in an frame in time when I still cared. They say when an artist loves you, you’ll never die but this time, I died not in your arms but as you shot me with a bullet to the temple, leaving me dead, barely breathing and hoping that I’ll make it out alive but I won’t and this time I won’t be there when you need me. Save yourself, the poet has died.

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