I feel like people are watching me disintegrate and no one cares enough to keep me in one piece because WHY would you want to keep an unwanted human?

I feel like I live in a body that was designed to **** me and all I can do is feel its presence crushing me more and more each day.

I no longer know how to cope.

SOMETIMES I FEEL THE WAY I USED TO AND I JUST WANT TO SCREAM BECAUSE IVE NEVER BEEN SO TERRIFIED.

In school, they teach you math and science, but they don't teach you about boys who pick apart your heart like flower petals, singing,
"I love her not, I love her not, I love her not."
My teachers did not show me how to pick myself up off the ground when he leaves. They did not teach me how to delete your text messages, burn your letters, and tear apart your pictures.
When I was in school, they did not teach me that smiles are fragile, and that once they're broken, they take years to repair.
I was not taught about boys like you, who are gentle with scarred skin. I was not warned of boys like you, who cower in heaps on their bed when they're lonely.
Nor did my mother tell me how to be careful with my mind full of secrets.
Never in school did they tell me that bed sheets can get lonely when he's not there to fill the space.

Sometimes I like to press my palms against my chest,
And forced all the oxygen out.
I'm still not sure if it's because I don't want to live anymore,
Or because I feel that all my pain will attach itself to the air,
And someone else will breath in my depression.

I
"It's almost spring..."
His voice was quiet, I couldn't tell if it was because spring meant being happy, or because it meant I was leaving again. He rolled over onto his side as the sun came through the curtains and created stains of light on his bare skin. His hair fell in his face, and I began painting pictures in my head of the two of us together during the next few months.

II
It's been a month since I left him, and I'm stilling painting pictures. It isn't of the two of us anymore though, it's only him. I sketch out the shape of his face and shade around his darkest thoughts. I like to imagine his voice, cooing, in my ear. I write him letters filled with my tears. I don't know if he opens them but I know that just the envelope screams, "I miss you."

III
Two months, sixty-one days, one thousand four hundred and sixty-four hours since I left him. I didn't want to leave; I wanted to stay, wrapped in his worn out silhouette. I don't know if he'll accept my torn up body anymore. Sometimes, I see his name form in my scars, and I think it's a sign that I should go back.

IV
I've lost track of how long it's been since I left; All I know is that there are forty-one days until I can go back, and that I've begun to smell like tobacco and sunflowers.

V
The sun doesn't shine as much here, and I think it's because the sky doesn't see your beautiful smile. I'm not really sure why I'm still here, I miss you.

VI**
When I walked into our apartment, you weren't there. I don't think you knew I'd be coming back four days early. The second you walked through the door, grocery bags in hand, I saw your eyes fill with tears.
I was back.

"It's almost summer time."
You said these words with a smile instead of a frown, and I knew it was because I wasn't leaving again.

I replay the memory of ivory walls and messy bed sheets
Silent rooms and clutter all around
I relive the nostalgia of our old apartment
That chair you used to sit in and spin around a million times over
Because it made you happy
The map above our bed where we'd mark all the places we wish to go with push pins
And the mess in our kitchen because we'd rather be kissing than cleaning
I tend to remember the way we'd sit together on the couch when you were sad and I'd let you cry into my lap because that's what you do when you love someone
Now when I lay in bed without you I like to ponder over what went wrong in that little, cluttered apartment of ours
Why the light of the city during the day and motion of night wasn't enough to keep us