Burning bridges, and talking to your ceiling. This is what the evenings will come to: nothingness icons, meaningless phrases, stories you don't want to hear, paper you didn't sign up for. I don't want to hear what you don't have to say, and no one asked for this quiet susurrus of a hate we won't conceal; convince ourselves that we don't have to exist, and call me crying when you think you've learned the key ingredient to what you've killed and commanded. I know pieces and shards are all we have left, but do me a favor by keeping our separate cracks and chunks away from each other; away from where we can build only one whole person, instead of these broken two and a half we've been left. It takes a lot of helpless love to hate a soul so thoroughly, and these are two supplies on which I'm not short. This silent war is making me cold, and I've yet to break through these prelude exchanges.