[i/o]

A poetry journal, currently resting on its author's desk, somewhere in Geladyne. It remains locked tight whenever she isn't actively updating it. None of its contents are published, nor, given their average quality, should they be. Some poems are accompanied by personal thoughts, hence the title of 'journal.'

It's merely a private form of stress relief.

No individual page is signed, but the bookmark that holds its place carries the name Ava.

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Hate

I hate you. Oh, truly, I do.

But never more than I hate myself -

for ever trusting you.

My heart doesn't ache, no - for it died long ago.

I can't rhyme 'no' with 'ago' on the same line. This poetry shit sucks. I could probably try and write around his name, or maybe the leech rabbit's. They could rhyme, I guess, but if I ever end up selling these that's kinda bad, right? Maybe I keep the rest of the poems but erase those parts in the published version. Something like that.

Everyone really should've just let me kill her. Or him. Maybe both. Myself? All three? I don't know. Pick two, or something, who cares. But I don't know how to write a poem about bloodlust. I don't know how to write a poem, period.

I don't know what to do. I guess I have to just find someone else, right? I just

feel so hollow.

hey, that's a good word for the next poem's theme.