i imagine that you're dead. i imagine that you're laying in a ditch, rotting. it's just easier that way. it's easier for me to believe you've died than to face the harsh reality that you're never coming back. you're gone. if i was honest with myself, i'd stop imagining and notice the new people in your life. how you tense up when i see you because now i write poetry and drink tea and hate myself. we used to do that together, hate ourselves. we used to fit, nail and hammer. at one point, you couldn't push me down further so you left. you became a ***** driver, ******* me over, ******* others over, until there's nothing i can do to help. i don't tell my therapist this. how i've stopped becoming a nail and become someone different. reading poems that don't rhyme anymore because they fit  too well together. i've become a *****. i keep other people together while they ***** me over. i look for broke people and fix them before i fix myself because i'll probably always be like this, this tool for people to use until i stop working or break, but at least they're a little more together than before they met me. i wish i could be honest and tell myself you aren't ever going to change, and blame me for leaving. I wish I could, but i can't.