You, my friend, are a broken masterpiece. You were carved out of shattered glass and you continually forced your cracks into mine like broken heirlooms, not that I ever had a problem with that, I jammed my cracks into yours just as forcefully, I think my biggest mistake was thinking that you could fix them. Your eyes are worn with things no boy should have seen, the leather falling from your boots and your skin is chipping, with time, nothing will be left of you but a memory. What's sad is that I'm not sure I have a problem with that either. I gave a total of 2 years of my life to you and when I decide to give it to someone else, you disappear, not a trace left of you but the blood that came from your razor while you were gone. Memories of us peeling from the back of my brain, conversations rusted over, you came back and I was so relieved that I said nothing about the thin red lines that littered your arms at first. Then I found out you'd only come back to get that pack of cigarettes I owed you. I still wonder what goes through your mind when you think about me, now. What's left of your heart is consumed with the hatred you feel for my boyfriend, and that shouldn't erode my thoughts as much as it does but in the end nothing is left but hurt, raw and naked and painful. That's the thing about pain, you see- it demands to be felt, but without you I feel strangely free, like I could spread my snapped wings and fly through a sky dotted with shining promises and the haze of a moon that makes my yellowed teeth and tattered clothing glow and I don't know if that excites me or scares the hell out of me, or both.
Feat. TFIOS, by John Green. "That's the thing about pain; it demands to be felt."