reading your
handwritten text
talking about how beautifulย
I look today;
I sighed and drop the note into my backpack.
Ink, the blood of parchment
never lied, even if it did
I saw right through it
you're talking lies,
pure, porcelain lies;
you never loved me,ย
not for a day, not for a week
not for a year, not ever.
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