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  • dmrlwrites 1d

    Fuck off, most ardently.


    ©dmrlwrites

  • dmrlwrites 2w

    Hey man, it’s cool. I get it.

    We were never on the same wavelength, just idled along an untuned frequency. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long (silly me, forever apologizing) to realize this but you know how I’ve always been one to dissect things and over analyze them, stitching up the incision as neatly as possible.

    See, I tend to fall in love with artists but you were never an artist. You were just a tortured soul with paint all over your hands that I tried hard to dissect and now you’re out there just existing, but me? I’m sitting here, pen in hand, trying to find the perfect words to describe the whites of your eyes.

    I wonder which path is more excruciating.


    ©dmrlwrites

  • dmrlwrites 5w

    Dark alleyways have more grit and execution than you ever did.


    ©dmrlwrites

  • dmrlwrites 6w

    If the mirror does not crack each time it reflects back to me, than why do I?


    ©dmrlwrites

  • dmrlwrites 8w

    I receive quarterly reminders of his existence. As if I can forget him or the ghost of a man he turned into once the combustion began at the flick of his flame-inked wrist. I want to ask him why. Why there’s still an invisible red string connected to both of our clumsy fingers. The string tugs, pulls, twists, it slow dances with circulation. I want to ask him why but I do not give in, I do not reply. Instead, I search for scissors that I am afraid I do not own.


    ©dmrlwrites

  • dmrlwrites 19w

    Seasick in the depths of memory.
    None in which involve the ocean,
    only your mouth.


    ©dmrlwrites

  • dmrlwrites 35w

    You speak of love like it’s a chore.

    Dirty dishwater that you're too afraid
    of placing your hands into, crumbs waiting
    to be swept under the rug, or the garbage that you’re allowing to overflow.

    If that’s your idea of love, you’re not
    who I thought you were.


    ©dmrlwrites

  • dmrlwrites 35w

    You were the Sid to my Nancy.

    We all know how that turned out.


    ©dmrlwrites

  • dmrlwrites 43w

    If all this is,
    is just ribbon soaked in ink,
    strikes of depressed keys
    and metal letters
    compressed against crumbled paper,
    that just so happens to cross
    your path one day:

    my work is done.


    ©dmrlwrites

  • dmrlwrites 48w

    We were adults
    relying on playful affection
    and pinky swears
    to save us.

    We should have
    known better.


    ©dmrlwrites