“Your handwriting. The way you walk. Which china pattern you choose. It’s all giving you away. Everything you do shows your hand. Everything is a self-portrait. Everything is a diary.”—Chuck Palahniuk (via psych-facts)
I was going to write this and slip it in your locker at work, but I thought it childish.
This is the part where my sadness turns to anger.
I hope when your insomnia sets in, in the late hours of the evening, when she’s fast asleep next you, that your heart fucking hurts. That you struggle to put me out of your mind. That your mind wanders to the millions of small moments we spent together. I hope your brain starts to relive them before you can push them away. That they come like a river, an ocean, and an avalanche. That you drown in the misery that you’re too far in. That you can never leave and be free and really live and breath. She owns you. You cut me out because you’re scared to lose everything.
I feel sorry for you. I know you said you’d break my heart, but I think you broke your own. I was the best thing that ever happened you. I hope you realize that when the insomnia sets in, in the late hours of the evening, when she’s fast asleep next to you.
It’s been exactly a week. Are you counting the days like I am? Are you wondering if you have the will power to really follow through, to cut me off and pretend the past six months didn’t change your life? Everyone is begging me to forget you. To write you off like you did me.
But there’s still a hint of your scent on my pillows and the lingering heavy air of what was so perfect for such a small moment.