you were a sight for sore eyes.
you asked me for pizza two seconds after you told me how far the pen had gone this time.
the scars would never go away.
and this time, it was for both of us.
red liquor, red paint, red tears, but nothing could have prepared me for this.
my melancholic release methods, one being this paper itself, had failed me.
they had failed you too.
parallels like this are always ironic.
i forgot to tell anyone that i was drowning too.
i forgot to care about myself, even when i was told the opposite.
you forgot to tell me not to call your parents.
at least it’s different than last time. at least you didn’t tell me you hated me and at least you didn’t wish i was dead.
trying to search for a hidden meaning when it isn’t there was always one of my best qualities.
this time it was as simple as can be.
this time i increased the repetition to the point where i could no longer be in denial.
this time you left me. maybe next time i’ll be the one to go.
i’ve always been so afraid of losing purpose and losing the love i’d forgotten to tell thank you, and you, and writing something no one wants to read about, and obscurities,
and me.
i’ve always had this irrational fear of myself.
they say that time will tell, but all that time has told me is i am fucked.
i am a tragedy collapsing in and i am a terrible writer anyway.
i am bad at hidden meanings and i am not good at painting. or crying.
i am a broken record playing the same track over and over.
you had bandages on your fingers that looked like snow capped mountains.
you always knew i was afraid of the cold.