He doesn't say my name anymore; not since the first time around. I am baby girl, angel, gorgeous. He hasn't said my name since that day.
"Well, ---, I don't think this is going to work."
That was the day I drove to the boat ramp at my lake, cut the brakes in my car, and waited.
The day I quit my job, dropped out of school, and deleted all of my social media account.
The time I dedicated all my free time - and time was all I had anymore - to researching how to recreate that fire in me and then how to treat third-degree burns.
The day I learned that time melts like chocolate when you hold it long enough, and it looks a lot like blood on my hands.
The day I learned white knuckling memories doesn't mean they seal the fractures between my fingers.
The day I learned some things just aren't mine to keep.
I've been touchier since that day; just one poke and I'm black and blue - yellow is rare, but it happens sometimes.
The doctor gave me some pills to help with the ache, and they keep me pretty full, so I don't know why I still have that gurgle in my stomach almost all the time, why I still have that itch in my veins when something is almost but not quite.
I tell myself constantly that a substitute can only hold off the craving for a little, but I need it now, and I never learn.