Don’t blame me for not being able to write. Writing comes in stages. My first stage was heartbreak. Everything I wrote was painfully relateable to all the heartbroken souls in the world. Tears flowed from my eyes to my fingertips, as I wrote about you. How you hurt me. What you did to me. How I’d never be the same. How you’d completely and utterly destroyed my soul. I wrote about how you shattered my heart, and how not even the strongest glue could ever mend those broken fragments. My second stage was inspiration. I began to move on. I forgave myself. I forgave you. I got motivated to do better, to pull myself out of the hole of depression you’d dug and thrown me in. I wrote about conquering my fears, and defeating my demons. I wrote about how self-love could mend those broken pieces you left throughout me. My third stage was love. I wrote about the boy who showed me I was capable of falling in love again. I wrote about how his hands fit perfectly in mine, better than yours ever did. I wrote about his gentle forehead kisses, and how my stomach churned when I looked at him. I wrote about how his lips tasted like honey against mine. I wrote about how special he made me feel. He gave me a purpose. He made me feel loved and appreciated. Then the cycle started over. It always does. Except this time, I won’t let it. I won’t let myself fall head-over-heels in love with someone who will take me forgranted. So don’t blame me for not being able to write. For I have nothing to write about. Maybe one day, but not today.
