cursed with dark magic from taking the wrong path,
a girl made her way towards the masquerade ball.
many had told her not to take the shortcut,
but her shoes were blistering her heels and hurting her toes.

it was only a shortcut.

knocked out by a strong wind,
waking with no recollection of what happened,
she continued.

the ball was extravagant and many were there.
the crown prince was present
with his eye on the girl with the antelope mask.
how delicate it was made and how smooth the material was,
the beauty of her must be stunning from underneath.

they danced all night until the party began to die,
and it was then that the prince wanted to know the identity of his love.
but the mask was stuck tight to her face,
and embarrassed the girl.
she spoke about the shortcut,
and the prince knew.

his true love cried before him,
but his father would never let him marry a girl in a mask.
so she ran away with the treacherous thoughts in her mind,
with the crown prince shouting from behind.

she ran until her feet wouldn’t,
and found herself in the darkest parts of the forest.

Why is it when somebody we love does us wrong
We bundle up our pain and pass it along?
Sharing the misery doesn't make yours shrink
Just adds to the chain another link
Only multiplies the hurt you feel
Gives another the same wounds to heal
We think by gifting it to someone new
Our own suffering we'll magically undo
But really we are just inflicting pain
On an undeserving person nothing to gain
All it does is make us feel even worse
To share with another our heartbroken curse

they say blood is thicker than water but haven't they heard
of ichor?

ichor;
the deep felling within, when you sense that something may
go wrong but let's set that thought aside because you don't know
what happens when the blood boils of gods and goddesses
or when the hues of gold and silver yearn for solitude as they
transform into something new; more precious, more expensive.
falling from the slick blade of a hero, poison to any mortal. but us-
humans- are wicked. if that blade falls into our palms, we'd corrupt
the world by spilling ichor for our mutual misunderstandings. so
we let ichor fall back into history- a curse for the reader- hoping one day that it'll fall into innocent hands so that once again,
unleashed from it's chains, would come Hade's hounds coming
to get you.

I don't know where I'm going wrong.
I do things that make me happy.
I surround myself with people who make me feel good about myself.
But, I don't feel good about myself.
I do my best to treat myself with kindness but the bad thoughts won't go away.
I have the deepest conversations with myself yet I can't even begin to express to another person exactly how I feel.
Do I feel too much?
To deeply?
Too carelessly?
I can talk about the things I've experienced but I can not communicate what it did to me.
I don't understand what I'm doing wrong,
when I'm trying everything in my capability to do right.
I don't know what to do,
I don't know what I'm doing.
I'm hurting far beyond what I let people see,
I don't know where I learned that,
but I really wish I wasn't like that.
To feel everything, but absolutely nothing at all is a ******* curse.

>It burns in me the love that couldvé formed. The erotica that couldvé been extablished, the depth that could've been formulated. But you left, and all I'm left with is your unwanted scars and burdens that are not mine. The grass is wet and the sun is hot, but my soul is in pain and lingers for yours. **** me like you hate me, but, kiss me like you miss me.

<I started to love and the love that surrounds me can be as deep as a cannon that has been created but I'm not left with my left eye. The grass is wet and the sun is very hot, but my soul is sick and sick for you · · · You miss me as much as you love me, zeitgeist / ts?t???st, z?t???st / name for Valerie's Dictionary. You hate me as I do condoms; However, as the story evolved through thoughts and thoughts, a specific period of time in the spirit of emotional zeitgeist in the mid-nineteenth century: Zeit 'time' + geist 'spirit' is in German. There is love within me that engenders inner love. But I apologize for my injuries. The grass is wet and the sun is very hot, but my life will be tormented. I do not know if you do not like me, but you say: "I'm not telling you." There is a love that can be formed in the depths. But give me some scars. The grass is wet and the sun is very hot, but my soul stays in it. I do not know if you do not like me, but you say: "I'm not telling you."

>I'm not telling you, But I'd love to whisper the words that conform to your being of thoughtless scrutiny. Whisper back in a silent forecast and let your words be heard by me. As the wet grass sinks in the sand, I see our love has sunken too. Nothing but the pain to hold onto. You love me, but is it enough? I love you, and it's enough. Your love is poison and it's intoxicating to my existence. Like a harsh summer breeze that is hard to foresee, can I still write my feelings without thinking I am delusional, ought to be. Love me hard but your toxicity stands in the way, as your feelings en-dour, my love stays true. A consistent loyalty that leaves a bruise. Before you know it, you left, as you said you would. Cut me out like a harsh knife that needs no razor blade, like a clean slice, you just left me in your scars. But with that pain, for some reason, even if I have let you go, I still love you.

<Cut my heart out with a knife or razor blade for a clean slice, just leave your mark.

>Leave your mark but don't leave a scar. Bury your sacred existence elsewhere and leave me to live and love on my own. It's suffocating, it buries my soul, without you, I am free to breathe on my own. The sun is hot, the grass is wet, without your love, I feel free, not dead, consumed by other things, like my mind itself.