"You make me sick."

I told her that I understood.

I make myself nauseous.

I'm bulimic, becuase of my bad habits.

Emotionally bulimic, of course.

(You know I could never actually vomit unless I'm thinking of you)

It was my incessant emotional purging that

really pulled this together.

Or, tore it apart, rather.

As you can tell, I'm no good at building up a story

with all of those melodramatic metaphors.

You were always good at that, though.

Oh, you were good at a lot of things.

Like, complaining.

You always had something to complain about.

Everything I did, everything I tried to be.

Heh.

I remember how you complained about how much I dyed my hair.

You hated how I would talk about suicide like it was

common conversation over the dinner table.

I guess I can't blame you for that last one.

Do you remember those nights when I would talk

about salvation

(Because I was just as desperate as you),

and you would always get off the phone, because

it was a "sensitive" subject with you.

Even though I would always put up with your inane

babbling.

That's okay, though, really.

Know why?

Because I was in love with you.

(Or maybe in just that skim milk kind of way)

Things were going good for a while, but now?

Now I think you're feeling trapped, and getting bored.

I honestly hope you find a place worth dying in.