We're done. I can't take the past anymore. It colors my present in mud. There's no joy anymore. No happiness. And damn you if you dare say anything...
I want to forget happiness and true laughter. I want to lose the smiles and the fun times. I don't want to remember anything from myself. Just want to see the world from fresh eyes, unclouded by your touch.
You've stolen the details that made the past worth recall and left only a general outline, like brush strokes trying to recreate a pencil sketch.
It doesn't work.
I'd say I'm sorry, because I haven't been the most faithful, the most reliable. I haven't exactly held up my end of the bargain either, but wanting you to go is so much more than just my fault.
There's blame on you too, for not being straight with me from the first. I learned the hard way that you like to misplace things, and I thought maybe we could live with that sense of deja vu, sometimes. That I could get used to having holes where understanding used to be.
It's not that you blanked on the chem exam in my junior year, or that you keep a stranglehold on the time in kindergarten when pants were uncool.
It's got more to do with recent events. April, for example. Let's talk about April, and how you won't let it go. Every time I sit down to write, April is the first memory you supply for inspiration. Every time I let myself relax a little, wander a little - April.
It's not that you're holding onto a failure - it's that you don't know when to give it up. You poke and prod and examine April until I can't focus on what I'm doing. Until I'm lost inside the reincarnated events.
April.
What a fucking joke.
I might even have been able to live with that, to forgive you if you managed to cling with such desperation to this summer. May, June, July and August are failures of clarity, and that's your fault. The moments I'd rather drown in are whispers, if that, and you're killing me every time I ask for a sample of the past. Always out of stock, and you'll never oder more.
Sometimes it's enough to make me want to hurt you. I've learned how. I know how to open the knives, now. J taught me how to kill with them. I'm still a student to Death.
You won't find me writing any breakup letters to her. She and I understand each other - she does what's expected of her. And she's not mine, either.
It's not an affair, and hell if I'm leaving you for someone. No. I'm leaving you for what you are, and what you've done (or failed to do).
I needed you, once upon a time, I thought. But fuck that now. Unless you've got the guts to make it up and try one more time, we're done.
(And even if you do, we still are. Just on a more friendly note. Possibilities, y'know?)
It's like this.
I can't recall
Ever wanting to
lose as much
as I do
with you.
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