Hello Bitches

When you try the hardest not to wake up your parents

“I hate him,” she swears. And her hands clench into fists, so tight that the nails create little crescent shapes in her palms. “I hate him,” she promises. And her hands shake so violently she has to steady herself. “I hate him,” she repeats. Once, twice, three times. “I hate him.” But even a stranger could see by the fire in her eyes that she does not hate him. A passerby could take her hands and the little crescent shaped marks and see his name scrawled into her skin. She does not hate him. But she wants to, oh she wants to.

Communicate. Even when it’s uncomfortable or uneasy. One of the best ways to heal, is simply getting everything out.

I don’t do goodbyes. When I see someone and we part ways, I’m tempted to call them later and continue like there was no pause. If I’m sending someone messages, “goodbye” means the letter has ended and it’s time for the post-script. When I say “goodnight”, it means “I know I’m supposed to not talk to you now, but I’m going to think about you for hours after this.” It’s tentative. Part of me will always hope that you can’t sleep, and maybe that’s because I know I could never sleep thinking this much about you. Maybe I want that unrest, that unshakeable sense of incompletion to tug at you as much as it does me. I don’t do goodbyes because I don’t know when I’ll see you again, when your last parting words will stop running through my head, when I’ll be done with you. I don’t do goodbyes because I can never find it in me to be done with you.

I still care, i’m just done showing it.

I pretended not to care about the things that pained me the most. I thought that if I pretended, then it wouldn’t hurt. But oh fuck, I was wrong, I was so very wrong.

I never understood why sad people drank; that was, until I was five shots in and was smiling at everything.