[diary entry no. 2] in midair.

i do not know what a rhapsody is, and i will not look it up.

not because i hate you, but because i am falling from the arms of passion and into the deepest pits of hell. which is entirely different from hatred. hatred is quick and it sputters and sparks fly and catch your clothes on fire. what i'm going through is much worse, i promise you. 

this is a long process. those tree branches used to hold me despite the heaviness of my heart and my skin. now they've cracked instead of growing stronger with me and i'm withering away in the wind as it slices through every shadow i've put up to keep the light from leaving my eyes.

i am withering in midair and my clothes are not on fire.