this is the last time i’ll ever put pen to paper
to express how much i miss the people who forced me to apologise,
despite me being the one who was drowning
in my own blood.
but even though i was left to stitch up the wounds
that they had created,
i still find myself spending nights laying in a puddle of my own tears
because i convince myself that i miss them.
if you miss the way his laughter seemed to fill every black hole
that was threatening to swallow you;
or you miss the fact that she drove 8 hours straight
just to teach you a language only the two of you will understand.
if you just miss the way his lips felt
on the back of your hands, more than you miss him sitting on the end of your bed,
then you don’t miss him at all.
you miss the memories of him; you miss the memories of her.
and let me tell you why memories are inaccurate fibres of our minds.
because he left you
because she left you
because collectively they forced you to pull the knives from your back
that had their initials carved in the handles.
collectively they gave you the world
but left and took the galaxy that you had to offer, with them.
because they let you lay screaming,
in the middle of the road as acid rain fell,
burning holes the size of the love that you hold in your entire being.
and somehow that was still less painful than when they let you go
without ever giving you a reason,
or without ever saying goodbye.
remember that there was a stage in your life where you were convinced
that tearing open your chest
and pulling out your own heart would hurt less than the pain that they caused you.
memories lead to nostalgia and nostalgia leaves you believing that the past
was better than it was.
nostalgia is a dirty liar; but the wounds that you are still licking are the result of a toxicity
that almost consumed you; swallowed you whole.
so next time you miss them,
come back to me and i’ll read this to you again and again and again.