P.
Your thoughts are like
poetry;
fast and lyrical, yes, but
also methodical and uncontrollable.
Robotic. Mechanical, almost.
The walls drip with garish
purple
and distracting lime
green. This signifies nothing, logically,
but emotionally it’s telling.
A small room of broken
people,
that’s all there was, and all I should
have expected. Three empty shells and
you.
Essentially, it all comes down to a
pact
that was once made, the two of us
knowing the whole time how futile it was,
but we did it anyway.
