I hate your perfect smile, with the unkempt scruff. Because now when I touch a boy’s arm and he smiles, it’s a dim, burnt out light, instead of the luminescence I once knew. But it’s not anyone else that’s been burnt out. Snuffed out. Just me. I can’t decide if it’s my heart or my mind. But it’s both wholes. My whole soul. You warmed my soul. Until it burnt out. God, I’m burnt out.
I hate that you used my nickname maybe twice. Because now my best friend can’t say it without my chest gaining claw marks.
I would say what got me through the first few weeks was knowing it was hell for you too. Maybe you were about to say the three words too. But nothing “got me through.” Because I didn’t get through. I was dragged through by my hair or my wrists. Deteriorating the appearance of both.
I hate that I know the three words didn’t flash through your mind every moment I smiled. I hate that it took you two weeks to tell the world you were ready for something new. Maybe I was lucky you held off that long. Haunted by the kid who told me that “Maybe that’s just what he told you. Maybe he was just done.” Because now I can’t believe you were being selfless because you loved me.
That insignificant boy’s quote started a furious inferno that would tear apart the minuscule crumbs of my heart that you had been glueing together.
But the fire’s more like a bomb of pent up something in the recesses of my mind. Sometimes it’s hardly noticeable. Then sometimes I stay up. Snuffing out the fuse every moment. So afraid.
Maybe. Time heals all wounds.
So I hit the first anniversary. Proud I’d “made it” this far. Until the day turned into the fuse so close my fingers grasped desperately. Burning myself again. Feeling it so strongly. Just wishing I wouldn’t. Just wishing I could be numb. What I wouldn’t give.