A little piece of me hates writing about you. It hates
the way you float in and out of my mind, and rips tiny
little lacerations in my well-being.
A little piece of me wants to never write about how I
was on facebook and I clicked on your name to maybe
find out something new about your life. It hates that I
always come back, empty handed and degraded.
You are no longer good for me, if you ever were in the
I dream about replacing you in my heart with boys that
have dark eyes that are infinitely more gentle than yours.
Boys that get lost in the wilderness and stagger back with
a new understanding of their universe. Boys that have
thirst for things of an untested nature.
In other words, boys that are better than you.
Yet, letting you go is so tedious and I resent you all the more
for being so minimally accepting of me for all that time. You're
a fucking jerk, and I want to be done with you.
I think I am done with you. With this.
Even if you take me into your home that's just been infected
with a disease that's lain visibly dormant, we are not what I
used to want us to be. Not anymore.
My cat has just died and my mind is hindered and I'm freeing
myself from the hold you have on my psyche. (Ironically enough,
I've wanted you to hold me in your arms this exact same way.
Funny how context fucks things up.)