March 13th, Year 21

Toxic love, gentle love, swaying me in one direction, then another. Soon, the lack of conviction will divide me into unrecognizable pieces, cut with a dull knife.

I have twenty-five bruises on one leg, more on the other. All of this goes unnoticed by the man who stands next to me, and the woman who asks how my day is going, without caring for the answer. A bit player, or an extra. My name is repeated back to me, as something other than what it is. My heart beats through my neck, showing an anxiety that makes others feel uncomfortable, as if they have temporarily placed themselves in my skin. They can walk away from what I cannot.

The old get older, until they do not. The young do not believe this will apply to them. They will remain forever in that memory of a day that meant nothing, until it passed them by. Time will create love, out of what was only lust.

The horror, the horror of wanting to mourn a moment that should pass by, but lingers. Holding on tighter, is met with resistance. Black is a color more obvious than white. Sadness is an emotion heavier than joy. This can be remembered. Who will remember the Savior, when salvation is no longer desired. Who is on your side, when your battle is all but lost.

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March 13th, Year 21

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