the endless toil

I texted this to you. You haven’t responded yet. I know you’re working, but I am so fucking anxious. I don’t know what I want. I try to break up because everyone is right, you were right. You’re not right for me. You do not want me. I want to start a fight, I want to see how you react, how long it will take for you to respond, for you to explode, for me to destroy every single bit of love and affection you somehow still have for me. How far can you go? 

We’re not even together, but I know that I’ve burned myself in your mind. I’ve left memories all over your dashboard. You say that I’m the messiest. I find freedom in my mess. I left it on your bed, over your blankets that I know you will never wash. My drool, cum, sweat, blood, hair. I won’t think about the tears.