i'm sad,
and although this doesn't concern you in the slightest,
i feel as though you should know.
i'm not crying. i'm not shaking.
that's not what sadness is about, is it?
crying, panic attacks, running mascara...
i don't know,
and neither do you.
i'm not going to say i still see your imprint in my mattress,
because despite the physical impossibilities,
you rarely ever ate.
i'm also not going to say these sheets still have your scent,
because i've washed them since then.
i know there's no hole in my heart,
and i know my soul is still present,
but they both seem so figurative as of now.
i don't know what's wrong with me!
loving you still... after all this time.
he hates me for it, you know.
your name slipped from my lips
(even though they were coated in his spit.)
i remember the slap he gave me.
i remember the way you held my hand.
i remember the first time you said you loved me.
and, fuck, do i remember the day you left me,
without even the most minuscule chance
of utter regret
on your mind.