I no longer care if I get lost because I would explore every valley and alley and nook of your mind without a drop of desire of being found. I've reached your highest mountain and jumped and I can't stop falling, and every second that passes I get closer and closer to the sweet relief of smashing and collapsing with one last exhale and your name on my tongue. My bones will turn to dust and your fingerprints to smudges but all it took was one touch to keep you embedded in my being and I don't care who remembers me a hundred years from now, as long as you never forget. Please don't forget me. I never want you to feel alone because I planted a piece of me deep inside of you. I just hope that you can find it. I'll remember you. You hold my hand tighter than anyone else has.

when I painted the house
I was so tired that a piece of me may have slipped into the can
now I'm smeared all over your room
painted in drips like the teardrops our faces know so well
and you have fallen out of love with me
but I live inside your walls
hearing you kiss her so hard
the plaster might just crack
and the pictures we hung up might just shudder off their nails and shatter

I cried simply because I could. You made it that way. You made it easy for me to do things that are selfish or dramatic, you allowed me to be human and most of all, to be honest with myself. You made it easy for me to not feel ashamed. When I cried over the phone it was because even on my worst nights when I would stab you in the chest, you would pull the blade out and apologize for getting blood on me. When I was violent, you were gentle. I do not mean to victimize you or demonize myself, but that is as raw as the truth will get. I cried because the bed space next to me was empty, and I cried because the grace of an angel does that kind of thing to you. I felt like a drug to you and you would always let me know that you were addicted, delirious, demented and proud. And in favor, I too would let you **** me as long as it meant that you ran through me every second of every day.
You told me that when you DO think of her, you see the image of the 17, 18 year old you sitting on your bed, across the room where it used to be, crying on empty nights, an empty mattress, an empty chest, and perhaps empty bottles or empty promises as well. That you had to classically condition yourself to not let her cross your mind, because it became a routine for you to let the torture flood your lungs, and leave you out of breath. I asked you what you thought of when you think of me, and you said your bedsheets. You said that when it comes to me, it's the image of a new you, a new person fresh out of old skin, sitting on your bed, near the window where you moved it to a couple of months ago, with the sheets perfectly layered and fixed, simply because I know how you love it so. I remembered an annoying peeve that you had, a quirk, or a typo in the page. I memorized it, simply so that I could fix it, and save you the trouble. You said that it was something so minimal, yet it meant so much. When you spoke about me and when you spoke about her, you spoke of two different people who came into your life that symbolized two different you's, but to me you were always the same person just eating different things for dinner, and bathing in different temperatures.