You are out at a bar. You make a joke about a girl. I want to throw up and I have not been drinking.
Until it’s completely shattered.
This is not my escapism. This is my honesty. You are the shot of whisky that turns my throat from a body part to a cathedral.
There are so many tomorrows you haven’t had yet. It’s an end to something you haven’t even had a real chance to start. This is the hardest thing to let go of: the thing you never really had.
Maybe I decided the only way to not have my heart broken again was to ignore the very things that make it beat. That withered thing sits in my chest and pulses only slightly when he tells me I look beautiful. I will it to stop.
Relationships have come and gone, and here I am, emotionally destroyed.
You will feel it all at once. When lips betray ego, inner running monologue finally silenced with all this heaviness.
I think it is simply my lot in life to love people who can’t love me back.
I didn’t want to keep our moments alive any longer. I just wanted the hurt to stop. It almost worked, until I received a phone call two months ago.
Last night I smoked a blunt with a 65-year-old woman.