Most of the times it's happened, I've felt a wave reassuring through my entrails that I wouldn't have to care, that I wouldn't ever feel again. No matter, I kept feeling despite the tides.

I felt for myself, because being left… is only fair.

I felt for myself, because, fearing solitude while it drags closer to the heart… turns all hollow.

Later one day, I saw through myself that, the feelings transpired me as if to unveil, that the faint of existence could not recover, as theirs is the inconsequence.

Soon after, I gathered myself. I sought to inquire meaning, purpose out of despair. I only found solitude made the heart tender, even as I inflicted upon others suffering or disdain.

The damage done, the whole undone, theirs was my intent. I did, however, turn against these as the orphan to go against the kindest of hearts

Anyway, who could ever care?

Whose is the truest intent, the one kind and graced by as if to be so?

I feel, I die. I feel I die.

Not to suffer, whilst alive, I became kind only as I wouldn't ever feel again.

I grieved for the self as it left. I lost the self as I stopped living.

All that lives, dies. Doesn't it?

I once felt warmth, I once completely secluded the self. It was still there, in my chest.

I however kept it sunken as if to have it drown inside, in time forgotten.

The only precious link, my sole breath of air, I forsake it through self-delusion.

I stupidly had the warmth around me taken.

I miserably got myself left alone.

The worst is…

Being left… it is only fair.