I opened up to you.
I let myself look weak, feel weak, in front of you. I let my sorrows pierce the air when I laid there shaking on my bed because you stopped loving me.
It started when you stopped calling me your world, and discovered that there's a whole universe out there with planets that suited your needs better, even though I loved you most.
You stopped loving how I always watch adventure time while I smoke my du maurier's off the balcony, or how I get drunk off cheap store bought white wine and I stop smiling.
You stopped wanting to discover new places with me and only wanted to discover what you could find in my bed, because you'd had a hard day and needed to not talk for awhile, or a week. I let you undress me and take your anger out on me between thin sheets, sweaty palms, high pitched screams, left with bruises, cuts, hand marks, and I would cry after but you would pretend you were asleep, and that's when I knew that I was merely another ***** bottle that burned your throat and made you feel numb.
I've been drinking a lot of ***** since you left, and last night it felt like my world was crumbling to bits and pieces around me because you weren't ******* there to tell me to stop drinking and to hold me and I can't ******* take care of myself since my biggest wish is to be 6 feet under the ground.
You promised me you wouldn't leave, but in reality the only promise that is ever kept is death because it's never broken.
So a warning to my next lover, when you lay in my bed and kiss the cracks of my collarbones and ask why I'm shaking, it's because the last time someone was here, they set fire to the bed with me in it.