I just want you to know that it’s your fault that you’ve hurt me. You asked me for more, more, more, more, more and I gave it, and suddenly it was all too much. You didn’t let me protect myself the way I would’ve…the way I should’ve…
“How fascinating it is that there are millions of people all over the world who are wide awake at 4 am missing someone. And there are millions of people sound asleep at 4 am, with no idea that they’re being missed.”—please come back (via nashviille)
Deleting your photos was probably one of the hardest things I had to do in my life. The first step to moving on is to disable you from showing up on my Facebook newsfeed so I will not be reminded that you’re doing fine without me. You’re happy while I’m taking my time pretending you don’t exist,
pretending you don’t exist,
pretending you don’t exist.
I’m relearning how to love coffee because
the smell of jasmine tea reminds me too much of you, and
I’m trying to avoid the sun, the ocean, the beach,
the streets we used to pass, and the friends we share in common, and basically people with the same country, language, and religion as you.
I will banish myself into a state of self-isolation in an effort to
forget, forget, forget -
Forget the photos taken together, the loving messages sent at 4AM, forget the dinner dates, and inside jokes, the green house, and tickle fights, the jungle party, the waking up together in the morning, or the weird way you sleep with your hands on your chest, and the way you hated the fact I snored. Forget how you feel inside me, the rock pools, the bike rides, or the roughness of your beard against my chin. Or how about the letters I wrote you everyday, or the late night conversations about the baggage in our heads?
Finally, forget I was your first love,
and ignore that “First love never dies!” bullshit,
but let’s not forget to change our relationship status online.
Then ignore me, and treat me like a stranger;
make me feel confused, lost, and unwanted.
Don’t reply to my messages until you convince me you never loved me at all.
I’ll jump into the sea and drown myself in whiskey,
then by the time I reach my 8th tequila shot,
I’ll make crappy poems to send you until I’d have nothing else left to say.
And the next time I reach for my pen,
it won’t be to write about you again.
The sun will feel warm on my skin once more,
and I will get drunk on the colors of the sky
instead of tasting hangovers dripping from strangers’ lips.
I will not be a sob story.
I’ll make sure you’ll remember why you fell in love with me.