I spent the fall
writing poems about how
to get over the hole in my chest.
And I, honest-to-god, burned them all
in a rickety old fireplace
because I no longer wanted to hold onto you.

I cried over the ashes.

I spent the winter
pouring myself into wine glasses
and falling into the beds of strangers that smelt
of stale smoke and memories
of the people that once completed us.

I don't know if I miss you,
or
if I miss the girl I was when I was with you

I spent the spring
drowning myself in a boy
whose hazel eyes reminded me of yours
and whose hands fit perfectly around my waist
and, if I was drunk enough,
and sad enough,
between his ***** sheets,
I could hear your voice whispering my name.

I broke his heart unapologetically,
just to know what it'd be like to
be on the other side.

I spent the summer
in a white-washed building
that was supposedly meant to make me less sad.
But I've learnt that there are no sanitariums
that can erase memories.
So I'll sit here,
listening to songs about getting better,
in hopes that one day,
I'll get there too.