lacey-books

As I lay here listening to the silence of the night, I get foggy glimpses of what I assume to be past memories. Memories of laughing with friends. Dancing in a white dress with a man whose face I can''''t picture. A little girl who looks like me running into the arms of a woman. These aren''''t my memories. They are the memories of someone who died long ago, before I became this. They become less vivid as time passes, but MY memories are clearer. They run red with blood. Destruction. Turmoil. Heartache. My life was nothing short of sightless dread until I met the one who opened my eyes. I only wish I had met him sooner.