I Was Sick Of Saying Sorry So I Said Goodbye.

Maybe we feel empty because we leave pieces of ourselves in everything we used to love.

That night, we drove in silence. I swear I couldn’t write about it before; the entire way to the funeral, I was shaking and planning exit strategies before we even found the highway. With my hands neatly folded in my lap, I felt like a child, my wide eyes peering over the dashboard in some kind of suspended disbelief. There was no way you were really driving my car to say our final goodbyes to someone with the sun in her eyes and gold in her heart. I didn’t believe it; you couldn’t believe me, my teeth chattering together like a sick girl’s symphony. If you would have reached out to touch me, I would have melted beneath the imprint of your fingertips. I’m a soft snow bank melting – transient, beautiful while it lasts and so quickly does it get dirty. On the way home, you circled the Chipotle parking lot and slammed on the breaks. Eased into a spot and shut the headlights off. Aimlessly, I stared out of the window at everyone, lined up like cattle – the line twisted around the building, frat shirts and baseball caps all warming against September chill. I swallowed a scream. You looked at my profile in the darkness, perhaps searching for part of the girl you knew existed within me once. She was hiding from you, afraid to stain your palms. She is still messy, nothing but a smear of paint across your chest. That night, the apartment was so silent I could hear my own breathing – rise and fall, each time the bedsprings groaned underneath my weight. I heard tree branches dance outside; leaves rustled on the back porch, through the parking lot, beneath my car’s tires. Somewhere distant, thunder rolled in. The only thing absent was the sound of someone else humming themselves to sleep – you. We died at a funeral. We died the second I screamed as you merged into another lane, and you slammed onto my breaks again, palms sweaty, and snapped. Your voice cracked like a whip. “What? What is it? Jesus, what IS it?” It’s nothing, and everything. It is the inevitability of endings; every sentence comes to a final close. Every train sighs into its last station. Every inhale accompanies an exhale. And for you and I, we were merely another collection of words and pleas – each more desperately pleading than the last to please stay, don’t leave just yet, don’t –

1. If I would’ve known you’d meet me here, I wouldn’t have taken that shot of cheap whiskey. I would have worn a stronger perfume. I would have combed my hair, worn something nicer, paid more attention to the eyeliner smudged beneath my eyes. 2. I should have interrupted you, not accepted every word with a half-hearted smile. I should have snapped your neck in half; I should have clenched my fists, smirked my way through sentences – what makes you think I want to spend these seconds trading stories about some other loves we drowned in? 3. I should have asked you what tour favorite poem was. Funny, right? Imagine dissecting every metaphor, trying to find your reflection. Don’t worry. They’re all for you, even when I don’t mean them to be. Don’t want them to be. Every dedication page stamped with ink rolls its eyes whenever it hears from me. 4. Aren’t you glad I didn’t cry? 5. If I would have known, I would have spent more time glancing at my reflection in the mirror. I wouldn’t have chugged that extra better; I shouldn’t have sipped wine straight from the bottle. I would have rehearsed my words, carefully chosen syllables, practiced my very best conviction. I would have known better than to smile. If I would have known.

Sometimes life will test you but remember this: When you walk up a mountain, your legs get stronger.

No matter how much the truth hurts, it’s always better than being lied to