Short stories were created after us
I don't believe in things that are better left unspoken for the sake of healing the cuts in our souls. I believe in bleeding out, throbbing wounds, pulsating flesh; the itch for living when you are on the brink of death. I had to find you, a dude with one too many of my father's traits. And I had to fall in love with you only to break up in the end. Freud is a weird one, but he was onto something with the Oedipus complex. You and my dad, bottle things up, overthink a perfect comeback, and then lash out with a neat closure line blaming everyone but yourself. You don't give me the chance to tell you how many pages I've wasted on you in my pink journal. I write about moving on, and how much I hated that you scratched your nose when you didn't care for what I was saying, and I write about the first time you said I love you. I write about the conversation that led us to break up. It is exhausting to replay and rehearse everything before putting it in ink. It is exhausti...