I keep writing about you. They tell me my words are beautiful. I don’t know why. Maybe because they’re written for you. You’re beautiful but what they don’t know—what you don’t know—is I stare at this blank fucking paper and all I feel is rage anger and frustration because I write down these things and it never comes close to what I feel. If actions could be translated into words, I would write me shouting in my fucking car because your favorite song came up on my god damned pandora station again. I would write me standing in the shower while the scolding water burns my skin as I try to think of the exact moment I lost you. Then I would write me shutting off the water in total defeat because I realized I never even had you. I would write how a fire starts in my chest whenever I see a picture of you and her. I’ve never envied a stranger so much before. I would write how my eyes burn as I continue to stare at the god damned ceiling at 3am missing you. Being up that late was only fun when you were around.
I wish you were still around.
I don’t even know how to fucking end this. There’s no poetic way to say I feel like fucking shit.