Trying to write down our story on pages wasn't enough.

You were something I could never describe, but you were mine.

I didn't need to figure out who you were because I loved the things I couldn't understand, because those things made you you.

I didn't know that the things I loved were the things that would break us apart.

Trying to write our love in ink couldn't happen.

Our love wasn't normal.

I didn't love you and you loved me back and that was that.

I'm pretty sure I loathed you at some point, and every time I hated you you made me love you even more by twisting it into your own fun.

I started hating myself because I knew it would stop you from playing whatever game my heart was labeled as in your mind.

Our story couldn't be written,

but if it were to be drawn,

we would just be a chaos of scribbles,

lost in each other.