America Vicuña
The Blossom Crushed by Obsessive Love
I bloomed for him. He crushed me.
They called me innocent. Pure. But purity means nothing to a man who only sees what he wants. I was young, yes, but not naïve enough to miss the coldness behind his kindness. Still, I clung to him. I gave him my heart, and he kept it in a drawer with all his other forgotten things. When he left me for the ghost he’d always loved, I shattered. I had to. I was never his equal—just a replacement, a balm for his endless waiting.
What I'm Into: fragrant gardens, riverboats at dusk, unsent love letters, the ache of silence, poetry that hides a wound
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