Again.

Replay. Repeat. Reread. Again.

Lay in your bed and stare in the dark. Reread the verses when it gets too hard.

Replay each screaming match and apathetic facial expression so you don’t miss him. Replay him closing the door and not making sure when you got to the car you safely got in. Replay the look in his eyes when he didn’t care much about that good bye. Replay, don’t stay.

Repeat all the daggers he threw in your head. “Fuck you.” “I don’t give a fuck.” “I don’t care.” Don’t call that back into your bed. Repeat the words that are what hold the bricks. Put down the phone and repeat the words that adhere and stick. 

Reread the words you wrote to let out the poison. Reread the verses where you didn’t think you’d survive. Reread so you remember that time you all but died. The dozens of sad coated poems to the two where he made you smile. Reread what you wrote so you don’t pick up and dial. Reread, he is not what you need.

Laying in the dark of the room I force myself to remember that I was nothing to you. Lay in the dark i repeat all the words, I replay the scenes of how often I cried and how little I wanted to sing. 

Again and again and again until you stop starting to call. Again and again and again until you don’t think about him at all.

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Balance.

The world works in balances, in an even ebb with an even flow. There must be moonlight before the day can check out and go. 

Love isn’t much different than the balances of the world. Someone must give so the other can take, turn it around so both get equal rights to the mistakes. 

The imbalance put us at odds, one of us always wanted to call it quits. We didn’t have the proper balance for it. 

Someone loved too much when the other, not enough. Someone doesn’t speak when the other talks too much. There was always an imbalance that became our crutch.

We wobbled towards the sun and didn’t have the gravity to keep us from that firey fall. We didn’t have the willingness to meet half way, let alone a phone call. 

The imbalance made the earth crack and leaves us to move or to mend. The world is nothing but balance and somehow all we can do is end. 

Weather. 

The world fell together as we fell apart.  It was painful but magic and gave me a fresh start. 

It came together in a hurricane that hurled ships up on beaches, tossed out the skeletons, soaked what I thought I once needed.

It’s okay that you want to walk away, you don’t like who I am and I’ve decided not to change even if that means you don’t stay. 

I’m not upset that you spun such a lovely sham. It was gorgeous at times, but mostly a horrific critique of who I am. 

Sometimes hurricanes just come through. I was ready for this one, I’ve survived them before and knew what to do. Don’t brace too hard or you’ll break your limbs. Don’t care too hard, you’ll just end up resenting him.

I create storms, I don’t sit inside them. I don’t hope for blue skies or fairer weather. I’ve always made the winds and I won’t change for you or any other. 

Shed.

Do you notice how we shed people like too tight skin? When you don’t need them or want them, you let them fall away like forgotten sins.

I thought survival depended on you with me. No, me with you. I thought I wouldn’t make it if we became two.

But you slowly fall away and I don’t feel that dead skin, I don’t notice the dead weight gone. I don’t mourn what I thought I would. You’re dying and it doesn’t feel wrong.

How naive I was to think I needed you to be me. We may be twisted and oh so prettily fucked but you are not something I need. 

I’ve shed the skin I wore like armor and mine is fresh, not necessarily new. It’s lovely not needing you. 

Darling, you’re dead and I don’t miss the skin. I’m alive and you’re not. Time isn’t always a bad thing. 

Play.

Let’s play pretend. Let’s pretend that I love you and let’s pretend you want me. Let’s pretend we are not crutches for our fatally wounded knees. 

We say the words and limp through the motions. I am a ghost and you are a shadow. No one wants to deliver the first low blow. No one wants to say they don’t mean it, no one wants to be the first. No one wants to be different and no one wants to change. We both want to stay the same. 

Let’s pretend we think we will be together, one more night. Tomorrow I’ll say the same. Let’s pretend we will choose each other when it all falls through. You are my last resort just like I am to you. Let’s play pretend like lovers do.

I’ll drink the wine and you’ll drink the rum. We will stumble into each other like it’s love, not convenience, until one of us is finally done.

November.

The rain falls down again. No lightening to electrify so I can pretend. Pretend the the cold is just on the surface of my soul. Pretend that November isn’t just another marker for another end. 

I feel it it my bones. I don’t know how I’m supposed to find warmth like yours. Bundle in the wet leaves, I don’t feel the cold, just need the density…

As the rain comes down on my rooftop, as the cold freezes my toes, tears are warm and they won’t stop. I never learned how to let go. 

I don’t have that shirt. I don’t have that smell. No tangible mem’ry to keep you here with me. I’m sleeping in a warm bed, and with the pillows play pretend, you’re pushed behind me I can feel your hands.

But the rain comes down on my rooftop and the cold numbs my bones. The hurt is fresh and the blood flows as I never learned how to let go.

The lightening never comes. There is no eye ’cause the storm is never done. Wet with November living in cold remembers.

Confession.

I’m trying not to say it aloud. It sounds dumb and childish and I hate how it sounds. But I miss you, I do, I hate that there is so much hatred for me in you.

I almost call you all the time. I think better of it each time I try. Following th trail back to the captor was never very wise… I hate that I can’t tell myself lies.

There is darkness where you were, there is silence where there were sounds. There is dried blood and stale feelings littering the ground. 

I hate to be battle ready at the end of the war, face smeared in blood and no enemy to defeat… just standing here, alone, sword clatters to my feet. I hate to admit I don’t hate you. 

I hate to admit I miss you. I hate to admit that I hope you miss me, too.

Real.

There are these moments where the clarity cuts into my ribs like the sharpened pencil that drew you so clearly into my mind.

These moments when I know exactly how you are supposed to fit. It doesn’t make the moments nice and it doesn’t make them kind…I just understand how it’s supposed to fit this time.

There are moments where the clarity molds over and sits like a lump on my rotting brain. Where I feel it there but it’s overgrown and looking at it causes too much pain.

Right now it’s sharp. It’s pointed and exact. I let the blood gush and swig the wine, refusing to go back. I let the artery twitch while I sit inside, accept the incision and refuse to hide.

Here is the wound that was self inflicted. Here is the scar from that time you ignored my deepest fear. Here is that bruise from when you said you preferred my voice constricted. 

Here is all of me on black and white display. You like the look of knowing I have wounds. They always thought I had too much to say. 

I’ll sit in my blood, old and new, most of these are my fault for going back to the “you’s.” 

Swallow the wine, I don’t have tears to dry, that well was bled long before brown eyes.

Stockholm.

I have it on replay in my head. All of the let downs and the screamed comments repeat while I lay in my bed.

I don’t want a love like that. I don’t want to disagree and get kicked until I bleed. I don’t want to defend myself when there shouldn’t be a need.

I don’t want love where I am the outlet. Where hurting me fixes you. Where you get to rage and scream, tell me to go fuck myself but then say that I am mean.

I let you do it on and off for years. Narcissists change long enough to lure back the the girls clothed in fears. I walked into that basement cave again and again. I let you try and strip me of all of my friends.

I don’t want a love where compromise means giving in. I don’t want a love where I’m always bruised within. I don’t want to resent your mother for raising you this way. Or hate your father for not showing you how to behave.

You are a product of your raising but 30 is too old to blame your mother. You choose basements and hate over the hearts of others. 

I don’t want a love like that. I don’t want to be told how I am allowed to be or act. I don’t want a love to try and control my every thought. You are twisted and ill screaming at me everything you think I’m not. 

I think you like to live in the dark. If you can lure in hearts to feed on their souls, you don’t have you try and you don’t have to leave your home. 

I don’t want a love like that anymore. I don’t want to pretend I don’t hurt or that you’ll ever be more.