To My Snowflake

Dear Snowflake,

I wanted to be poetic. I wanted to inspire people.

I wanted it all, except every single word I wrote wasn't good enough.

I wasn't good enough.

I went crazy, you know, all my thoughts going back to you and the fact that

I would've given anything and everything just so you could break my heart.

The damages you would've caused are catastrophic, which is why I find a sick joy

in the prospect of being destroyed by you.

Because having you hurt me is better than never having you at all.

But you left me waiting.

Waiting for you to pull the trigger on the loaded gun I gave you.

Waiting for you to tell me that everything was pretend and I was a joke.

I wanted to be broken and hurt and bruised and battered,

just so every time I thought about you, 

which is far more often than I wish I did,

I'd see a villain and not a hero.

A sad reality instead of false fucking hope.

All I ever needed was for you to break me with your bare hands.

Instead now I'm a lonely wandering soul, who eats the same takeout

every Thursday night at 6:47 and stares at blank pages because

every time I try to write something I see the spaces between each letter

and think to myself how each word is a broken heart

And I'm just a random transition

in a random sentence

in a book that never managed to sell.

Yeah, I wanted to be poetic.

I wanted a lot of things.

But the sky is grey and I'm inside an apartment I can barely afford ten years later

still wondering what if.

Signed,

Emma