I don't miss you, but I don't sleep with the covers tucked in anymore. I started changing the sheets more often and I'm doing okay, but I'll never flip my pillow the way you did.

I don't miss you, but I leave crumpled wet towels on the floor now. I bought a new one specifically for my hair when it has just been dyed, it's plain black. I hope your blue towel is stained pink forever.

I don't miss you, but I haven't watched the sunset for the last two weeks. I've started watching the sunrise instead. I'm tired of endings. I'm still doing okay.

I don't miss you, but every time I write about you my heart races and everything turns into darkness. My doctor would probably suggest a pacemaker. I suggest another drink.

I don't miss you, but I had to block your number to stop myself crawling back. I still remember it better than my own.

I don't miss you, but maybe I'm lying to myself.

I don't miss you, but I hope you miss me.

I don't miss you, but maybe I should.

I'm six years old. I'm six years old and my favourite colour is green because it's the colour of my eyes and I think my eyes are the prettiest things I have ever seen.

I'm eight years old. I'm eight years old and I had a nightmare so bad I felt like my eyes were deceiving me. My favourite colour is now the same pale blue as my Mum's floral bedsheets because they make me feel safe.

I'm ten years old now. I'm ten years old and I'm a big girl because I'm allowed to walk to school with my friend instead of my Mum. We walk past fields of buttercups and other pretty flowers but my new favourite colour is the peach of the rose in my front garden.

I'm twelve years old. I'm twelve years old and I can't stand the colour green anymore because the meaner people in my school decided my self worth was less important than their jokes. I don't have a favourite colour anymore, but if you ask I'll say it's purple.

I'm fourteen years old. I'm fourteen which means I've been a teenager for a year and I still can't stand the colour green. My Mum let me dye my hair for the first time and now it is red and red is my favourite colour, but if you asked I would still tell you it's purple.

I'm sixteen now. I'm sixteen and I think I know everything, I met a boy that I like for the first time, my Mum doesn't know, but I think he makes the colour green a bit easier to look at because he told me he loves my eyes and that they are the most beautiful things he has ever seen. He gave me a pair of rose tinted glasses and I'm not quite sure why, but for now my favourite colour is the deep brown of his eyes but if anyone asks, my favourite colour is still purple.

I'm eighteen now. I'm eighteen and I can finally drink without it being illegal, and I have started drinking to forget everything except the colour of my Mum's pale blue floral bedsheets, the peach of the rose in my front garden, the bright red of my hair and the green of my eyes but most of all I'm drinking to forget the purple of the bruises that litter my skin, the purple that I always insisted was my favourite colour for reasons unknown to me.

I should be twenty years old now, and my favourite colour should be the orange of the sunset, the pink of the sunrise or maybe even the yellow of the buttercups in the fields I used to walk past on my way to school, but I did not make it to twenty years old. My favourite colour was never purple and I never asked for my skin to be constantly tainted that way, but you made sure I never healed and now my Mum is laying purple flowers on my grave and she's wishing she fought more to get my favourite colour to be green again like when I was six years old and in love with myself and the world around me, because if I still loved the innocent green then maybe I wouldn't be suffering my greatest nightmare as a child with the only comfort being tucked up in the seemingly endless sea of brown. I always tricked myself and everyone else into thinking things were perfect with rose tinted glasses but the lenses shattered and the last flower you laid on my grave was the peach coloured rose from my front garden, and now the petals have wilted and all of the colour has been drained from me but this new world has more hues than I could have ever dreamed of.

It's selfish, but I hope he misses me. I hope he sees her and misses me. I hope she kisses him and I hope it's never as gentle as the way I would kiss him, I hope she holds his hand when things get tough, but I hope her grip is too tight.

I hope he misses me. I need him to ******* miss me. I hope he looks into her eyes and wishes they were mine, I hope he brushes her hair and wishes it was pink or blue or green or any colour other than hers, I hope he wakes up in the middle of the night wishing he'd never let me go.

I hope he misses me. I hope she walks beside him and I hope he reaches for her hand only to find she's a different height to me and I hope it's not as comfortable. I hope he turns to her in bed and wishes it was me tucked into his side and I ******* hope he stutters when he says her name.

I hope he misses me. I hope he misses me half as much as I miss him. I hope he sees what kind of mistake he's made because I am so ******* kind and I was always so ******* gentle with his heart and I always handled it with so much care. I hope she slips and I hope she drops it. I hope she tries her best but I ******* hope it isn't enough.

I hope he misses me.

I've been waiting for the day
that my footsteps
are quiet enough
for me to walk across the room
and not make a sound.

I've been waiting for the day
that the only thing
you can hear
when I sit down
are my bones clicking
against themselves.

and I've been waiting for the day
that I can look at myself
and not want
to make myself sick
because of the way
I see myself.

see,
I don't have
the best perception
of life
or anything, really
I can't tell you
what is real and
what is fantasy
but I can tell you
that my days
are getting shorter
and my time
is running out
and I want you to know
that I have never felt
more loved
than when I was
cuddled up
safe and sound
in your arms.

I smoked all of your stale cigarettes and I wore your t shirt until the scent of your cologne was gone and then I drank every last drop of the alcohol you left behind until every memory I had of you and more had disappeared. but I'm keeping the empty cigarette packet, the bottles and your t shirt in a shoe box in the furthest corner under my bed; I'm keeping train tickets and old photos and I'm keeping the love letters that never meant anything to you. I'm torn between wanting everything about you gone and needing memories of you to keep myself sane.

Missing you is feeling a sadness that seeps so deep into my bones and I carry the weight of it everywhere I go; it's pennies in my purse that I'm never going to spend and it's aches in my chest that never lighten up. It's thinking I can hear the shower running when I'm home alone, it's thinking I saw my phone light up only to find no new messages and it's waking up in the morning and wrapping my blanket tighter even though there will never be a perfect replacement for your arms. It's wasting days away because living without you whispering in my ear, without you holding my hand and without you kissing my forehead feels pointless. It's breathing in but never having enough oxygen to fill my lungs. But it's never cliché. It's never accidentally pouring you a cup of tea or shouting that the shower is free when you're not around to hear. It's not setting an extra place at the table and it's not picking up your favourite *** from the supermarket. Missing you is an empty sadness. Missing you just ******* hurts.

I once heard that every cell in the body replaces itself every seven years, and I often hear people saying how lucky they are to one day have a body that will have not been touched by you, but unlucky for me time is of the essence and I want no further delay. I'm ripping the skin from my lips where you last kissed me because I'm scared I was never gentle enough. I'm burning my tongue to rid myself of your taste because I was always too bitter for a sweet thing like you. I'm scratching at my legs until my fingers are raw because they were once wrapped around you and I'm anxious that my grip was too tight. I'm tearing at my fingernails because they once scratched down your back and I'm worried the cuts may have run too deep. I'm pulling myself to pieces until I'm slouched in a puddle of blood, and I need it all to be gone because you tended to my wounds and it sickens me that I let you get into my heart in such an intricate way.