Last night I woke up gripping your echo, and  drowned it out with *** and two Vicodin. I am so dramatic, when you left I felt like a child throwing a fit. Saying I was never going to eat again, feel again, love again. But there is a voice deep in the beyonds of my mind, that whispered over my screams, telling me that this feeling is all too familiar. The begging, the wishing, the sheer desperation.
I have felt everything. The anxiety attacks when you looked at me, the butterflies when you said I was okay, I was going to be okay— I’m going
To be okay.
And an emptiness creeping in with a bitter grin, that I welcome at the door.
What is different about the way you left is the way you said goodbye. Because you didn’t want to. You said you didn’t want to lose me, which I don’t think I’ve ever heard before. But we both know everything has to change now. I can’t be another sock puppet, lifeless and pretending to like that you only look at me with hungry eyes. You cannot break my bones and put me on strings. Leave my body for the vultures, and I promise when you visit the grave stone I will be blooming in the same spot you left me bleeding. Emerging from earth, rebirthed and radiant. Because I have gotten over this before.
And I have been okay before.
And I will be okay again.