Was it when I thought a damaged person like me could find love. Back when butterflies consumed my waking hours occupying my time better spent studying. But even when I thought I found love; I loved with my running shoes next to my ominous heart. I loved you like a crime scene. Letting you in was my choice. Proving me right was yours.
Was it when I took that indigo ink and scribbled my initials in those tiny blocks without reading the fine print. When I saw myself, as a voice that could not be silenced. Back when I had an army at my beck and call; an arsenal of friends turned foes.
Was it the leap of faith, deciding to leave the only life I knew for the unknown. Addicted to the thrill of change, promise, and hope. Back in a time of innocence and glee. Harboring a soul wanting to be watered.
Maybe it was the cold wooden floor where pain only felt like a lost prayer. The thought of nothing only felt like a blessing. But not only two years later did that wooden floor become titled, and the lost prayer became a wish.
Only I cannot recall a specific time nor place where everything fell apart, but only it did not. For it can only fall apart and a soul can only wither if one has truly given up on the promise of salvation.
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