six weeks of disaster. six weeks since the reveal of my true nature; my hideous monstrous soul, violently lashing out and destroying everything in its path. six weeks since i've been reminded that nothing good will ever come from the things i do. no wildly improbable outcomes, no stupid delusional fairytale ending. six weeks since wrecking my own happiness, and all for what? for some hateful words, strung together fancily; for some flowery rose-tinted recount of my false perception of reality? for unnecessary sorrow and loss, for permanent damage to something i'd once kept so sacred? why'd you even bother holding him so dear to your heart if you were gonna go ahead and actively ruin him, like those beautiful months never meant a single goddamn thing to you? why bother writing that fucking letter if it accomplished nothing more than just reminding you that you're doomed to always suffer at the hands of yourself? cut deeper next time and maybe you’ll slice those hands off entirely.