I’m done writing about you.
I’m done pinning my delusional daydreams along the curve of your spine. Done letting your ghost trace my hidden anxieties with icy fingers, kissing the silhouette of unfulfilled promises. I’m done howling underneath your full moon only to retire back to my den alone, a lone wolf. I’m done looking for you when I have no fucking clue where you are.
I’m done romanticizing goodbyes, reimagining the last time you walked out my door with some melancholy soundtrack. Like maybe if I give this shit some cinematic twist, I’ll get my happy ending eventually. I’m done crying to Landslide. I’m a damn cliché.
I’m done with bitter words that are just a poorly covered façade. My gooey insides are just hoping they can go incognito for just a little longer.
I’m done justifying why you left. Done playing Russian Roulette with our memories. Like maybe if I had been the one to pull the trigger, I could have walked away with some dignity. I would have been the one with the gun instead of the girl with the bullet shaped hole in her heart.
I’m done bleeding on the floor, hoping my secrets don’t spill out.
I’m done being afraid of my secrets. Hell, I’m done referring to parts of myself as secrets.
I’m done feeling sorry for the girl I turned into: the girl who didn’t even refer to herself as a woman, just a girl.
I’m done pretending I meant anything to you, and I’m done ever doubting my own worth as a result.
I’m finally done. I’m done writing about you, because in all honesty, it’s always been about me.