I used to write about you so intensely, so determined that everything I said would somehow reach you and the ink would spill in your veins.  I used to write about you with a pinched heart, an ache that never left my bones, and a crystal tear in each eye that never wanted to stroll down my cheeks. I used to write about you, hoping that the missing-you feeling would pass and that the visions in my head would be diminished if I just ******* wrote down how I felt.

We were partners in crime. We were our own Bonny & Clyde, but you decided to get away with Billie Jean. My hair is falling out and the tears are streaming like blood down a pure river. I flushed my rosary, the one you gave to me, down the toilet and now the toilet’s clogged and I don’t want to get out of bed to fix it. I don’t even want to call your brother plumber, but maybe I will and maybe I’ll ***** him and leave lipstick kisses on the places I would leave them on you.

I feel so sick when I get in this cycle, when I start writing about you again and when everything just spills out of the glass. But I still write about you because the therapist tells me to.