I’ve come to realize that I’m pretty much over you. I’ve wanted to be over you for so long and now that its actually happening it feels weird. your like second nature to me and I’m comfortable missing you and now its just scary that there’s no more me and you and I have to go back into this dating thing and just end up getting hurt again, maybe…of course. I’ve come such a long way. Four years, seven months, nine days since October 21st since I knew I liked you a lot. Never thought you would end up meaning so much to me. You saved me from my loneliness and made me become a better me. I thank you for everything you have done for me and being there when no one else was and mending my heart and always saying the cutest things to make me feel better and making me fall for you. You have taught me things I never knew were possible before you. It’s finally over between us and I’ll miss you. Sorry we stopped talking, sorry you didn’t smile more, laugh more, not as much as you sighed and cried. I hope your new girlfriend will be so much better than I ever was.
I promise you’ll always be something special in my heart. I love you, always and forever. Will I ever find someone who compares to you?
Red.
For fuck’s sake, show yourself. I am sick of this touchy-feely heart-shaped little monsters infesting my throat and tummy. Flowery words sloppily rehearsed only sincerely leaving my lips when I am intoxicated, consumed by guilt and other confusing feelings. Feelings that I desperately cling to as much as as I desperately wish to be rid of every time they sprout another leaf from what I previously thought was a weak stem, limp and lifeless, though not entirely unwanted nor forgotten as it was imagined beautifully by me after all. Which is why it hurts as much as it is amusing; my insatiable thirst for feeling, that I ruin both myself and my victim.
Though I refuse to believe he is completely innocent, not without some sick personal agenda (my tone, I noticed, always leans towards the angry). And yet I am so blissfully dissolving into him. His careless charms that behold me, as repulsive as it is seductive, compels me to let go. Yes, right now; now when it’s too late; because I am cruel like that—have always been since the beginning; to him, perhaps, or to myself. It is I whom I insult.
And yet I smiled when he woke me up with some stupid YouTube song that has so flawlessly weaved itself into my dream, as though he wasn’t a stranger, whose smell and taste and touch have inevitably grown roots into a certain familiarity I most definitely will regret having invited.
No, love. I have written you far less complicated letters without a shred of pretence, but I understand why you are jealous that he should captivate my thoughts completely.
"— Friday, 13 April 2012
— April 10
