It doesn't matter if my hand was pushed, it doesn't matter if I was helped along. It was my idea. It was my escape. Because I wanted the blissful nothingness. I wanted one small victory. I wanted -
. . . But then I woke up in Hell. And I met an ANGEL. And I met two, I'm sure. The second more soft spoken, but blunt in his approach. I was intrigued, but didn't intend for anything more.
And there he fucking went, becoming more and more and more, right before my eyes. It shouldn't have happened, but I didn't want it to stop. Because something shifted in me that I though was long dormant. It was like my heart had some complicated stupid lock and he happened to have the exact right key. And I finally had something good. Someone who loved me, truly loved me.
It was nice.
It was nice.
Nice hardly begins to cover it, but it's the softest, gentlest sounding word, and that's what moments in the flower fields felt like with him. And that's what the quiet few mornings we got together felt like. And that's what his lips were like.
And then,
he was gone.
Without a chance to tell anyone goodbye.
Without giving me a chance to say goodbye.