an ire for bards and other things.

a letter.

the blood that has flown from my wrists now write these words

for you.

~

i am young still,
and because of that,
my mind has a tendency to
forget who i am.
it often whispers that i am what what
other people have concluded me to be.

so much so, that i often have to remind
myself that only
i
have the power to define my heart.

none of me

belongs to you

anymore.

- you enslaved my soul when what i needed most, was to be free.