I wish I could write you an email. Just press send and be done with it. But apparently I have too much self-respect, or at least that’s what I tell myself.

 

Sometimes I think is just fear paralyzing me as usual.

 

Sometimes I wish my pain were unshared. I wish I were the only leaving soul with this wrecked heart and I knew for a fact that no one had their existence questioned because the pain of moving on was unbearable.

 

I wish you thought of me every time you fuck her. I even wish you couldn’t fuck her at all. I wish you could crawl to my feet and I would have the strength to crush you as you crushed me.

 

Is this human?

 

Nothing else compares to the need of being loved or set right.

 

Even when you thought that you moved on you’re set back by the most insignificant thing. Again you become the worst version of yourself, the one you swear you can’t recognize but know that lives within you.

 

Do we ever reach forgiveness?

 

You tell me.

 

We say we’re all right but we always reassure it with words. We never show the weakness of a relapse. We shame ourselves into strength. We smile, we cope, we survive, but we never breathe the same way.

 

Will you come back?

 

You will not find me again. The girl you once love is now gone. She won’t come back. She won’t move on. She, simply, doesn’t exist anymore.

 

The pain is no longer an issue. It ceased for good. The memories now fit into a narrative, the moments slipped into the cracks and all we remember is how much it fucked us up.

 

Look for me when nothing makes sense and you question your every move… I’ll come back to you in another shell. You’ll recognize me in her eyes, in the idea of an escape and realized that you never loved me at all.