The Fabric of Our Souls

by K.M. Moronova

Whoever coined the phrase “sticks and stones” is an asshole, don’t you think? Words indeed hurt more than stones. Thanks for trying to gaslight me out of it though. It didn’t work.

Sometimes the darkness inside me thinks that this is what they’ve wanted all along—for me to finally give in. Well, welcome to the shit show. The curtain is finally closing.

I’m burning inside, and it hurts. I just want to stop hurting.

Our beds are so close we might as well push them together and have a fucking California king.

“Nice outfit. Did depressed gnomes raid your closet or something?”

I’ve never been hate-fucked. I’m sure it’s not passionate or adoring, but you only live once, right?

“I saw a young woman. A confused little flower trying to bloom in the daylight when you were always meant to thrive beneath the stars, unlike those around you. You’ve wilted enough for the world. Don’t you think?”

No one sees me as the person I sometimes dream I am. A nice girl. A person worthy of love. A soul that didn’t crawl up from hell. If I wasn’t here anymore, it would all stop. The pain. The dread. All the things that hurt my stupid conscience… If I die, maybe I’ll wake up somewhere better. Or I’ll just be dead. And I’m okay with that too.