You take your tea, with two sugars and a dash of milk. You smell like lavender and a good-night sleep. Your arms around me feel like what I imagine the last-burning star would feel like just before it dies; the last moment of heat before nothing. nothing. You always said I should try writing poetry, and I would just laugh the suggestion off. “my thoughts are like knotted headphone wires” were my exact words. The thing with poetry is you never write it for fun. You write it because your whole being hurts and you have nowhere left to turn. Pages, pages of words filled with empty feelings, feelings that hold no real arbitrary meaning is where you will find my words for you. Did my feelings for you ever exist or did I fall in love with the version of you my mentally-ill brain saw you. It does that sometimes. You are not special and yet you are. You. You. You. i’ve tried drugs, drink, sleep, sex. Anything to lull the obsessive compulsion my brain has in reminding me of you. I wish to forget you ever existed. I prayed for you or rather to be rid of you. I got on my knees and I begged God to remove the mere thought of you. Clearly, it didn’t work. It never does like that. But I will pray, plead, beg. I think this is the first time i’ve truly comprehended how fucked up I am. I know this because I couldn’t bring myself to hate you for leaving me. She is gorgeous. pretty. blonde. skinny. I don’t blame you. I bet you her smile is easy to put there and I bet you it stays there without your assistance. I bet you she doesn’t make you over think every word you say before you say it. I bet. I bet. I bet you will be happier without me. I wish you nothing but happiness without me.

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