Curses of ashes

But both cursed their fates, a broken piece of mirror in bloody fabric that cut through even the most expensive silk, let alone your fragile, thin skin, wounding yourself just by picking it up, then looking deeper into the suicidal reflection of your soul, that's what they do, they put curses on you.

And I don't despise it, I thrive in that feeling too, when the adrenaline makes my teeth clatter as I rush over my words each time, as I bite on my tongue unintentionally, tasting the same sorrow that made them and me, the guttural hate and desperation in my stomach, the voices in my head, scheming my throw up. 

And every night, I cry, because I loved them, or at least the remaining traces of their persona that I scraped together from bits I could find, the moments that lasted in my peripheral vision.