• Elizabeth Woodson

The Distortion of our Narative

Updated: Dec 10, 2021

It's like buying a home and finding out you have no control of any of your shit. Like a computer built white supremacy and I am the last to know. Like this white boy can't put his shoes on slower when I tell him it's his time to leave. The candle cries and I will watch for the seven hours it takes before she is out for good, with only traces that reveal nothing of her dismantling.


He thinks I need to repay him for every gift he decides to give to me, but never turns the peace of mind I offer him. That I am made to create by my lonesome. I am made to refigure it from the pieces left behind.


Everything cute or silly about her was actually me, and now you will never know what my eyes look like when you look into them, because I look away.


So now he is angry, and feeds me nightmares as revenge and to prove my love once more I let them wash over me like fresh cold water in the morning. But all I want to do is let go, please tell me this isn't love God. Distortion, lies, revenge.



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