They diagnosed me with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and Anxiety Disorder, less than three months before I told you I wanted to **** myself. That was four years ago.
Sometimes, when there's a moment of silence in my head, quite like the pause in words when you've realized you said too much, I think I should of followed through when you had asked me to. I think there would be a lot less heartache for every body I touched but couldn't love. I fear that you'll be hidden below their skin, waiting for me to fall in love again.
Speaking of skin, it's been almost three years since you last touched mine. Every July I still scrub a little harder in the shower, somehow believing that I will forget you again. You haven't touched me since the 13th of December back in 2012, but it feels like your fingertips are still crawling up my skin.
You've fallen in love again, and I can't hold a steady relationship for more than a few months. Maybe that's because I still kiss boys that remind me of you. Maybe that's because I still hear you saying "I never even loved you," long after I've forgotten the sound of your voice.
I sometimes catch the gym teacher looking at me the same way one would look at their siblings like "I won't tell if you won't." I don't mean this to sound questionable, in fact, he gives me that look when I become distressed, like a mutual "we don't have to talk about it, just know I know." He gave me that same look in 2012, when I threatened to leave you, when you grabbed my arms and told me not to walk away from you. Your grip made me flinch, and I think back then it was as unnerving for him as it is for me to realize I haven't gotten better in the past four years.