I think it’s you that I keep writing about but maybe it’s her. It’s bad that I can’t even tell anymore. Getting my heart broken again just reminds me of the first time and I just live in a high speed nostalgic blur.

People tell me my words are beautiful, maybe because they’re written for you. They don’t know though that when I stare at this blank fucking page all I feel is rage and crushing heartbreak. These words spill from my fingers but it’s still nothing close to what I feel.

I wish actions could be translated into words because I would write me smashing my fist into a wall because I saw you with her or I would write credit cards and rolled up bank notes and pupils the size of of moons as I try to forget you for the tenth time that day. I would write me standing in the scalding hot shower trying to remember the exact moment where you weren’t mine anymore. I would write how my eyes burn as I lie there staring at the ceiling again because staying up late was only fun when your head was on my chest and I couldn’t bear to be without you for a second.

If actions could be translated into words that’s what would fill my pages. I guess I just wish you were still around, okay?

I think it hurt when I stumbled across her that night. I could sense trouble but she was beautiful and my curiosity got the better of me. Again. I remember looking at her and I could see pain echoed in her eyes. She didn’t need me to pick up the pieces but it didn’t stop me from wanting to. She was so beautiful when she laughed that I just wanted to see her happy. Every time I made her laugh I thought about how I wanted to make her laugh forever.

In the end, she got better and happier and gathered herself up and walked away.

But she didn’t take me with her.

So now, I’m stuck here where I found her that first night wondering if all these broken pieces left on the floor are hers or mine.