i woke up to whispers of you in my sheets, after dreams of your inky heart smoothing and soothing the bottomless pit in my chest, and i’d be lying if i didn’t say that it took me a moment to erase the image of your silhouette next to me. i pictured you languidly lounging, head perched on your hand, smiling at me. and what a sight.
you know (knew) how i liked to be held close when you kiss me like you’re hungry for my flesh, and you suck all the thoughts from my brain through my mouth.. i’d like to think you remember me that way. i kind of like the femme fatale fantasy, it’s somehow less demeaning to me than all the times you’ve made me cry and i still sought your comfort. but truthfully, if i had more say, i’d rather not think about you in any capacity at all.
sometimes, when i’m feeling particularly melancholic, i conjure up punchy nothings (somethings) and pretend you can sense my sentiments just as soon as they take form, the words pouring, pounding into your mind as if they were breaking through a dam, the water warping into waves as my words etch into your brain, instantly granting my pathetic perspective, beckoning you to my call. though i can never imagine what you’d say.
especially now that i’ve exhausted my helpless ploys and manifestations, sent out all my wishes (like the one in the well that day) to the universe that maybe, somehow, some way, i’d know you still think about me. maybe you miss me (how could you not). maybe you’re a little fucking sorry about how it all went down. but i know better than to think that. most of the time anyway. i made hours-long playlists trying to numb my mind, or piece together some sort of understanding, navigating my newfound outlook, in the dark, crawling on my hands and knees over needles and nails, not sure what i’m even searching for. i hated the crying and sulking almost just as much as i hate thinking about what you’re up to these days.
and even though i can hardly let you exist in my mind, much less in my life (while maintaining any semblance of sanity to say the least), i can’t help but see a vignette of what was on the days that i’m tired of hating you or wanting better for myself. sometimes i don’t know the difference. but i do know looking at your face makes me sick to my stomach. and i know you’ll never deserve my best, and maybe not even my worst. the indelible marks on my soul (and my skin) can’t be washed away, quite unlike like all the makeup i’ve cried off, or the somewhat slow, but sure and steady deletion of you.
i’ve learned that time (or any value for that matter) spent on you is wasted, squandered in the labyrinthine abyss you might mistake for a heart. months i spent wishing things were different, lovelier, a pretty package wrapped up in a ‘casual friendship’ bow, i sadly also know all that can be is what is. and i hope i never see you, have the displeasure of entertaining your idle small talk, or mistake you for anything but an immature, insatiable braggart.
but i hope you see me, and i hope it makes your stomach sour (a retribution to yours truly), i hope you’re at a loss, and most of all, i hope you can say it was all worth it. i used to count the hours between our texts, and instead now i keep count of the days spent free of you, commending myself for (unsuccessfully) pretending not to care. i refuse to let you get off on any more of my endeavors to evoke a response from you. at least now i can finally be less. less complicated, less involved, less miserable. less to you. nonexistent, actually. i read your blog yesterday and it was actually a relief to read “the pieces fit together; unlike my first year of college!”, at least on that we can agree. i can’t say if i had more pleasure in cringing at your writing, or unsubscribing from your newsletter (i’ll never tell).
