8 months later

The sickly sweet smell of a memory i haven’t had the stones to go back to for nearly 8 months. Warms the blood and makes my head a little lighter, more hazy, but at what cost? The smell, the taste of times that i used to have, drag my mood down and threaten to drown me under their weight. And i am too weak to move. A lump is forming in my throat, a spark of hysteria before it is stifled, hysteria, impulsively going to “i could go back, I could explain everything, this could work”.

But those memories of a time foreign devastatingly  sad, and peaceful all at once, must stay in my memory where i break each time i inevitably run into them.

 Now, in this warm haze, maybe i could have the guts to message him, try and open the door, ask him where it all went wrong, why it has to be this way, and whether any of it was real at all.

 Did they know the whole time that that is how it would go? Was every damn movie, every game, every car trip and conversation, were they all some cunning way to just get what you wanted?

   I won’t ever, ever know the truth and it is enough to make me want to open the window wide, push open the screen, and let myself just fall. Lazily, right now i don’t even think i’d scream.

 He’s marred every single memory.  every late night trip around town, every name of every street rich with promise, every high river trip, they are all pieces that stab me and the blood is everywhere. And i don’t know why it hasn’t stopped yet. Why hasn’t the blood loss killed me yet?

 My head is “fluzzy”, fluffy and dizzy, but when i half-sob and long for someone to message, the only name that echoes in my mind is his.

  The name that no one is allowed to say, the one i avoid, the one i use a single letter for. I stop myself from running back, and stopping myself, is enough to make me want to never wake up

 I would have sworn, that nearly a year later, this would be different. But it isn’t, there’s no one else, nowhere else that i want to run to.

 Here, now, the pain, the suffocating sadness of staying away… and they wonder why i don’t believe in anything.

  Every late night cleaning, every late night resteraunt, every shot, were for nothing at all.

   And i wonder what’s happened , could it be fixed if i tried to eek open a door that’s been nailed shut. Did i do something wrong? Was there miscommunication? But I don’t think so. Eight months is not miscommunication, or a busy schedule. Eight months is eight months of me sobbing on the bathroom floor, sleepless, days without eating.. Eight months because he didn’t have the nerve to say a proper goodbye.

 Maybe if it gets cold, or there’s no one to talk to, maybe he’ll need me again. But i know i’m not even fooling myself. That was then and this is me, even more broken than before and hoping that they’ll try to operate, that they’ll fuck up, and I’ll know nothing. The absence of any sensation at all.

 For every letter i didn’t send, when I didn’t have the courage to follow through on moving, to make him have to face it. Because of every single step i’ve been dragged since the day i said goodbye, this, now, is all alone and wishing with an empty heart that just once, things could be differently.

 And you, that one letter, your initial, the symbol of everything we were, never leaves my mind.

 So fuck you.

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