Sometimes I like to write letters to you. Seal them in an envelope. Address it. And grab my lighter. Because maybe the ashes of my words will speak to you in ways that I never could.
Whenever the searing pain from memories of your laughter begin scarring the skin in my lungs and throat, I can only manage the stinging sensations simply by pretending that you have died. That you no longer live on this Earth.
And this all makes me feel so pathetic, so lowly, because the nights I break down and cry I know that you do not know. You do not care. You have erased me from that cold heart of yours and you are happy.
Your new girlfriend is pretty.
I've seen you both laughing in the hallway together, walking outside together, going home together. And I am so, so happy for you. I'm glad she makes you happier than I ever could.
Today, a boy came up to me and asked me what ever happened to us. I told him what I've told everyone: we grew a part, it just didn't work out, we decided it was for the best.
But in reality, I have no clue. No clue.
I wake up every morning with this pathetic hope that maybe the past few months have been a nightmare; I pinch myself but never wake.
I go to sleep every night going over every last detail trying to detect the very moment when I had lost you; and even after all this time, I start to wonder if I ever even really had you. Even with that idea just entering my mind, I feel like I have my answer.