Text her. Send her messages that she won't know how to respond to. she'll read them and put her phone down. Stare at the read receipt for hours until you realize she's not picking the phone back up, she doesn't have anything to say to you.

Eat lots of chocolate. It has serotonin in it, the happy chemical. When you cuddle with her, your brain releases oxytocin. As long as you eat enough chocolate (and throw it up) you won't miss the oxytocin one bit.

Bleed. When she tells you that she cuts herself, cut deeper. This is guerrilla warfare now, and for every shot fired you must fire back.

Read your messages. Laugh at the nicknames she used. "Princess". "Baby". "Darlin". You were never her princess, never her baby. She was the child and you were merely her plaything.

Make art. Write dumb poetry about falling in and out of love, take photographs of your ****** thighs, paint a picture using only shades of red. Let her figure out what all these things mean.

Drink. Green tea, *****, over-priced lattes. Stay up all night crying. Wear stilettos. Sit in art museums all alone and wonder if being a starving artist is as much fun as it sounds. Take long showers and harmonize with your favorite songs through your tears. Use heavier, blacker eyeliner. Spend time on yourself. Adopt a cat. But most of all, remember this:

You can only love one person. Choose yourself

Look at me.
I'm peeling back my skin
for you,
can't you see my heart
all black and bruised and
covered in burn marks
from the cigarettes I
never told you I smoked?
You turn away because
it's kind of gross but
here I am,
exposed,
tearing myself open
because I don't know
how to keep things inside.

And I spent so long
trying to tell myself
that I am strong,
that you cannot
break me
- but I'm already
breaking.
I'm fragile and
I'm weak because
I took my backbone and
built it up at your feet
like a Jenga tower which
you dismantle so recklessly,
never guessing it might
fall.

I will fall because you
built me up so tall,
tall enough to get a grip
on the expectations I
set for you
- left hanging there -
feet kicking helplessly
through thin air
when the
hands that lifted me
so high
move away to
see some
better sights.

I am not afraid of heights
I'm just afraid of
not being able to get
back down.
But you've already
taken what was
left of the
solid ground.

And you let it
rain down on me,
all those sticks and
stones which
pierce my soul,
you let it shatter me
like the bathroom mirror
in which I never saw
beauty.
You let it break me,
and I will let myself
be broken
because I've already given
that power to you.

But what you
don't understand
is that
I have a fuckload
of superglue.

And I will stick myself
back together.
It doesn't end
here.
This is just another
scar
on my already
blemished surface.

And each scar will
line itself up,
branching from each
other like the
wrinkles on the palm
of my hand.

And each one will be a
reminder that I
survived.
I am still here even after
being broken
time and
time
again.

You were not the end
of me.
This was not a loss,
but a victory.

Like sodium to
Water. Young and reckless with
Our hearts and ourselves.

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories ****** but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.