My life has become a series of steps without you.
- Wake up.
- Get out of bed
- Start the shower
- Body wash
(and then it take me another few minutes to turn the water off, so I just stand there–turning the dial hotter just to see how much I can take)
- Get dressed
- Wash my face
- Dry my hair
- Eating has become my real problem though–so breakfast is apparently optional.
My days always start this way. I have to get through each moment. It hurts to think too far in the future even tonight is blurry. How am I supposed to go on now that you’ve made my flaws clear? You’ve condemned my good name. I feel wretched. What’s the fucking point of living if I’m only going to hurt the people I love? That’s where I’m at right now. And I’m trying so hard not to blame you for those thoughts but like everything else, it’s bloody difficult not to.
I’m still angry, I’m still hurt. I’m still sad and I’m still guilty of all the things you accused me of. I’m still not good enough, strong enough. And yes that does make you a jackass, but what I’ve done is just as bad.
I knew I couldn’t wake up and be all better–wash my sins away. It never works like that except in movies. I’m sorry I can’t give you a Hollywood ending.
Tears–the ones I cried that first night, before, but mostly after we hung up, were heavy. I thought they were filled with relief. At least I hoped they were. I hoped the act of shedding, claiming these salt stained lines on my cheeks and blotchy red eyes–empty would take this weight off me. I was wrong.
I fell asleep still heaving dry sobs softly. Guilt hung over me as I slept. It sank into my sheets, kept me warm.
It seems you were unaffected by this though, and I wonder if you mourn this as much as I do, but what you do is no longer my business. I might never know.
You were beautiful as I knew you–when I was in love with you. But I don’t know you anymore, that was always my fault. Never yours. You always gave yourself freely. just more fearlessly than I. I held back amongst my own fear. That is my tragic flaw, and I’ll take the time to relate myself to Hamlet (I am an English major after all). He was afraid to act, as am I. And we’ve both been so weak as to contemplate suicide, or in philosophical conversations we are too nauseous to comprehend the disaster that our lives have become.
But I’m pretty sure my story won’t end in such mass casualty, I certainly hope not.
Your flaw–that gorgeous romanticism that drives you forward.
This may mean nothing at this point, but I always had the best of intentions when it came to you. And I still care about you. No matter what, I hope you’re happy and that you get all the things you want.