a cynic’s confessions

You were dressed in white.

And I swear, at that moment, I knew you were going to be the death of me.

Romanticism was dead, but I wanted to tell myself that I could believe in something more than the emptiness of our liberal lives.

You scared me because your light blinded the void.

Yet, I loved the contradiction in your very being– how you never claimed perfection despite the clearness that was in you. You never claimed a higher moral ground. I liked that. I think morality is an illusion. I loved how salvation didn’t mean anything to you.

I couldn’t save you if I wanted to.

I don’t know how to save myself.

The answer isn’t love, love.

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