Really, I’m not sure what exactly I was expecting, looking for answers in your fragmented breaths. I’ve spent much more time than I’m proud of trying to look at you through a rearview mirror instead of a foggy window. I’m a lot better at missing you than I am at caring for you, or even treating you like a person, and that’s probably because when I miss you, you don’t have to be around to witness it.
What I'm trying to say is, I hummed songs when you were around and tricked myself into believing that you knew the words. I don’t think you were listening, but if you are now, know this: You are the cup of coffee I drink at 7pm when I’m searching for a legal way to make myself suffer. When you touch me, I feel like I’m being run over, and not even lethally. You undo everything in your wake and, quite frankly, I can’t survive with my veins strewn about the floor anymore. We’re both at fault for this, but you’re making it so much worse. It’ll be better if you just go.