Status: ♂♂
Bandaids.
one || one
You’ve probably just missed him for too long.
The apartment… the apartment fucking reeks, of cigarettes, of vomit, of sadness. Fucking loneliness. You didn’t know it had a smell until now, when your nose burns and it’s not chemical (it hasn’t been, not since he left. Maybe this is your punishment. Maybe this is your redemption).
You know what you’re saying when your mother calls, it can be explained away because you have a knack for explaining away misery. But you don’t know what you’re saying when his mother calls, because she shouldn’t sound like him but she does. She does.
And it just… it feels like cancer, a rot inside of you. She asks questions you can answer but don’t want to because it would might actually kill you. It would hurt too much to say, “I loved him but that wasn't enough,” because the thing about remembering is that you can't forget.
So you hang up instead. You stare at the unmade bed (unmade plans?) and defiantly don’t think about him because thinking about him would mean Thinking About Him and the wounds he left, the wounds that refuse to scar. The steadfastness of your body when all that's left of your mind is the disintegration he's caused.
… you just. You can’t even bear to think his name, let alone say it, let alone talk about him, because it sounds like the better days, and it sounds like you can’t let go but you have. You’re going to. You will eventually.
(But... but) you can still put “Love” and his name in the same sentence. It’s the only time it doesn’t feel like you have to explain yourself, because there is no explaining beyond that. Because he had your name tattooed on his wrist. Because still all you can think is, “You took me with you”, but it doesn’t feel like taking when you let him have it so gladly.
(You’ll always wonder if he left his booking information open on your computer on purpose. If he was just being cruel. If maybe he really wanted you to follow him.)
The apartment… the apartment fucking reeks, of cigarettes, of vomit, of sadness. Fucking loneliness. You didn’t know it had a smell until now, when your nose burns and it’s not chemical (it hasn’t been, not since he left. Maybe this is your punishment. Maybe this is your redemption).
You know what you’re saying when your mother calls, it can be explained away because you have a knack for explaining away misery. But you don’t know what you’re saying when his mother calls, because she shouldn’t sound like him but she does. She does.
And it just… it feels like cancer, a rot inside of you. She asks questions you can answer but don’t want to because it would might actually kill you. It would hurt too much to say, “I loved him but that wasn't enough,” because the thing about remembering is that you can't forget.
So you hang up instead. You stare at the unmade bed (unmade plans?) and defiantly don’t think about him because thinking about him would mean Thinking About Him and the wounds he left, the wounds that refuse to scar. The steadfastness of your body when all that's left of your mind is the disintegration he's caused.
… you just. You can’t even bear to think his name, let alone say it, let alone talk about him, because it sounds like the better days, and it sounds like you can’t let go but you have. You’re going to. You will eventually.
(But... but) you can still put “Love” and his name in the same sentence. It’s the only time it doesn’t feel like you have to explain yourself, because there is no explaining beyond that. Because he had your name tattooed on his wrist. Because still all you can think is, “You took me with you”, but it doesn’t feel like taking when you let him have it so gladly.
(You’ll always wonder if he left his booking information open on your computer on purpose. If he was just being cruel. If maybe he really wanted you to follow him.)