i don’t love you anymore.

with all that i write about you and all that i continue to say, you might be saying, oh, you’re full of shit.

but… how do i say this?

fuck, i don’t know.

like i said before, i’ve forgotten what you look like. how your eyes and lips look. how i wished you fit against me.

no. these honeyed words came while i wrote. and when i think about you, i think not of your hands, but of how we used to have each other’s backs.
(you always knew how good i was at writing)

you represent how pathetic i am. my rock bottom. my lowest.
you are everything i hate about me in a single word.
and if you think i ever still love you—

i don’t. i just miss the me i was before

i admit, it’s something unduly placed on you
a curse that you never deserved to have
and i bow my head to the floor if my whispered words had ever brought
the whims of misfortune your way

so… you i know you’ll never read this
and i know you might never forgive me
but i really do,
and genuinely do,
wish for you to be healthy and happy