I know it's been a while since I posted on here, but this is something that I just came up with, and I love, love, love it. Normally, I hate anyhting I write. Reviews would be appreciate, especially if you can help me improve it.

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I try to remember how long it was since I last saw you. I just remember that is was a very long time ago; I went to your house and found it empty. Now, they say you're back. I don't know if I'm ready to face you. What would I say to you? Hey, what's up? How was the weather where ever you went? I would probably slap you, or something. I have every right to wish you were dead.

I don't have to find you, though. You're on my front porch, holding flowers. The first thing through my mind is that you remember where I lived. What if I had moved? Then, I spot the flowers. They're roses…and that's romantic.

No, I tell myself. This is not romantic. You do not love him anymore. You broke my heart, and I'm not sure if I want to feel that again. Actually, I know I don't want to feel that again. It sucks to feel like that; it hurts. I'm not going to open the door, either.

"I know you're home," you yell, pressing the doorbell over and over and over again. It just keeps ringing and ringing and ringing, and why won't you go away? I don't want you here right now, anymore. "That's your shit-bucket of a car in the drive way. Don't think I'm stupid." And, I do. I think you are stupid. I just keep thinking and thinking and thinking that you are stupid, and I hate you; I hate you so much, so much, so much.

You just won't stop pressing, pressing, pressing the door bell, and it just keeps ringing, ringing, ringing, and I'm just thinking, thinking, thinking about what I should do. Then, I laugh. I laugh because if you think you can waltz right back into my life, as if nothing happened, then you can accept that I've "moved on." I mess up my hair, opening the door.

"What are you doing back?" I snarl. You look me over, up and down, up and down, up and down, and I know you want me. Or, maybe you don't. Maybe you never wanted me at all. Maybe you just want my body because nobody else loves you like I love-loved-you. Nobody fell for you as hard as I did.

"I'm…I miss you," you mumble. I shake my head, slamming the door. I let out a sigh of relief. Slamming the door in your face feels good, feels liberating. "Are you better?" When was I bad? "Are you alone?" I chuckle lightly, grinning. I'm alone. I'm always alone, but you don't know that.

"Actually, I'm busy," I yell through the door. Deciding against straining my vocals, I open the door, or maybe I just want a clear view of your face when I tell you this. "My boyfriend and I are…" Your eyes widen, and I don't have to say anything more. You hang your head, and I hope to God it hurts. "What is it?" I ask, leaning casually against the door frame, and I hope to God that my satisfied grin isn't showing on my face. You can't know that this is a lie. You have to hurt.

"I…I just…God," you mutter. You kick at the ground. Are you lost for words? Are you, the amazing Michael Sanders, whom always knew exactly what to say to make me feel in love, at a loss for words? Have I put a dent in your plans? I want to laugh, but I can't. "Tell him he's a lucky bastard to have somebody like you."

This isn't how it's supposed to go. You're supposed to apologize like crazy. Tell me exactly how much you love me. Sweep me off my feet. Take me to the bedroom. You're not supposed to put the stupid roses down and turn and leave.

My heart is just sinking, sinking, sinking to my stomach, and you're leaving, leaving, leaving, and we're supposed to be fucking, fucking, fucking. I feel rotten. I didn't mean to-I didn't think I would-actually hurt you. I thought you would fight for me. You should fight for me.

I look around searching for your car, before realizing you must have walked to my house. I slam the front door, harder than I thought I could, and a picture falls off my wall. Ironically it's you and I together. I look around for my jacket, but I can’t find it. I spot a hoodie in the corner, and that will just have to work.

Soon I'm running, running, running after you. My feet, my bare feet, are dying, practically burning, on the pavement. I forgot how quickly you could walk, especially when you were upset.

"Is this what I mean to you?" I yell, finally close enough to grab your upper arm. "You love me so much that you leave?" I turn you around, so you face me, and I slap you. "No notes, no phone calls; you didn't tell anybody anything! It…It fucking hurts!" I'm screaming and people are staring, and this is what I get for living on a busy street.

You're trying to stutter some kind of explanation, stuttering, stuttering, stuttering, and I'm just trying to breathe, breathe, breathe, while this is happening. 'Cause now I'm starting to think that every I love you was a lie. It's starting to feel like it did before. When I discovered you left. Everything is a lie, and my bones are like Jell-o, and I'm just falling, falling, falling, and I know that soon I'll hit the pavement like last time. There'll be blood everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, but at least I'll be away, at the hospital. They'll give me some anesthesia or Novocain and everything will be numb, numb, numb, and to the point where I can't feel anything.

This time, you're there. You manage to catch me before I hit the ground, and I start crying, crying, crying, and you're trying to 'shush' me because we're in public, and I'm making a scene. I always make scenes.

"C'mon," you whisper soothingly, trying to calm me down. "Let's get you home, and to…your boy…boyfriend." I can tell it's hurting, hurting, hurting you, and I start wailing, wailing, wailing because I don't have a boyfriend, and everything I said was such a horrible lie.

"I don't…I don't have a boy…boyfriend," I stutter, gripping onto your arms tightly. You are supporting me, but you nearly drop me in shock because you're supporting me. "I…It hurts." You pull me up and start to walk, practically dragging me along the pavement.

Soon, I'm sitting in my car, changing the radio station, and you're staring out the windshield, driving. You won't answer my questions, but you threw some of my stuff in the trunk and made sure you buckled my seat belt. I decide to ask more questions, changing the topic, no longer where are we going but why did you leave.

"I didn't leave without telling you," you finally snap. "I left because you were hurting me. This is hurting me," you manage to say. I stare at you, with wide eyes, because it's the other way around. You hurt me. You're hurting me. "I told you. I told you I was going away for a bit because I couldn't deal with it anymore, but I'd be back when you were better. I told you…I said that you had to go see somebody. You had to go see somebody about your problems, and I would be back in a few months."

"I don't have problems," I manage to say, my eyes widening in shock. You have problems. You just left me without a word. "I…I'm perfectly fine."

"No, you're not. You forget things. You have mental break downs. You have problems." I shake my head, because you're wrong, wrong, wrong, because I have never had a mental break down ever, and I've never forgotten a single birthday.

"I don't," I yell. I roll down the window, trying to ignore you. You gently rub my knee, and I yell at you to stop, stop, stop, and now people in their cars are staring at me.

"You make scenes. You're making a scene right now," you tell me. I shake my head. "When people stare at you, you're making a scene. You're getting help. I'm getting you help because that's how much I love you. I want you better. And, back there, at the corner, that was a mental break down. And, you can't remember me saying why I was leaving."

"You're wrong, wrong, wrong," I shout. But, I know you're right, right, right, because you have never been wrong, wrong, wrong, and you have never lied to me.

"I'm getting you help, but I'm not just leaving this time. I'm making sure you are getting help. I'm not letting you go." I wish you would stop using my name.

"Stop saying my name," I tell you, and you stare at me oddly. You pull into a parking lot, and open my door. "Where are we?" I ask.

"Stop yelling," you tell me. Except I'm not yelling, yelling, yelling, and maybe you need your hearing checked. "I haven’t said your name once," you tell me, and I shake my head. "We're here so you can get help. You'll be here for a few months, but I'll visit every day. I promise."

"Do you promise to visit me everyday?" I ask, grabbing your hand, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing it, and I'm just so happy to have you back. I barely hear you sigh.

"Yeah, I promise," you say, wrapping your arms around me. I lean against you, feeling so content. You nod, and I barely realize we're inside now, and you are signing some papers and leading me down a hall to a room. "We're going to get you fixed."

But I'm not broken.