There are bruises on the back sides of my hands from trying to stop doors from slamming on them. There are signs of irritated skin beneath my eyes from prolonged exposure to moisture and rubbing. I can’t stop you from leaving, and I can’t stop myself from hurting either way this goes. The feeling I get in the back of my throat swells until the point that my esophagus is permanently shut and i can’t breathe. I guess my lungs, like you, have had enough of me.
I cover up my sobbing with the burned CD you gave me. I remember when it used to make me feel special but now all I can do is think of the sadness it took you to make it. Like there’s a secret truth behind each lyric of every modest mouse song. Some history I will never know about. I wish you would let me in a little more, I wish I could let myself sleep, I wish this was more simple, I wish too much.
Hope was always something I asked too much of, but showed too little interest in. If I really was hopeful my thoughts might seem less desperate. I might not have to count out my respirations so often. I might not have to talk myself down from the chatter in my mind and the clicking of my teeth. I might not have migraines from the tension in my neck. I might not have reoccurring dreams from the night that you never left-yet…
But I’m still holding my breath and forcing my self to read a book that ill never finish. Every day is a reminder that every moment is a reminder that every second is a reminder that every person is a reminder that you can’t love me.