I don't dream about you at night anymore.
I have sold that dress, that wig, that cross you wore. But you are still with me. You weren't in your clothes or belongings.
I think about you now, as I think about myself. Realizing what would be obvious to anyone else. That I am not happy-go-lucky. I think about how a character in Enchanted April was referred to as a "disappointed Madonna." That is sort of how I feel. I try to be nice, but it didn't all work out.
These were the last photos I took of you. In fact it was practically the last time I even saw you, before everything went hell-bound. I was starting to get your look right. It comes through in the photos. For the first time, you looked alive.
I didn't have to do it. I don't have to do it now. I have the money and the means.
I can't even say it though. It doesn't seem right to pay money for you, or have you. I don't understand it.
I'm just remembering. It's not what I want to encourage, this dark melancholy. If I don't encourage it, it only takes over a portion of my life.
It's not what I want to be about. I'm fighting to be free. But I don't know what I'm fighting.
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