Your Sentence

It always starts the same.
My story writes itself you know.
You do, because your story wrote me out of it.
It wasn’t an end of a chapter.
You’re an anthology and I was a sentence.
One you refused to punctuate and more importantly end.
I became run-on, fragmented.
I’m a novella.
Rich in detail and character.
Analyze me.
Think of what isn’t written or seen behind those black bars on the pages. It’s worth it.
It’s time to put a period on the end of that sentence. But it doesn’t mean I’ll stop reading it.
Cause I have.
Over and over and over again.
You are not a chapter in my life.
You are the black ink on the pages.
It never ends the same.
Now I write in colour.

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