I sometimes took note of every word you told me that made me live, confused, and sad. When I should've written everything. When every time I talked to you, I have nothing to shield myself from loving you more continuously and somehow secretly.
Those written words seemed spilled ink that glows after the fallout. It glows on the nights I grieve. I feel weak for needing to grieve since no one has died. And it doesn’t make sense that I grieve so much for someone who was no longer mine.
And I am now spending my 8th year of mourning and erasing the stain you left me.
—Jhunamae Moja (Smnllyl,spilled ink)
Journal Date:
