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 exhausting to think of your stupid face when you first gave me flowers, and that same stupid look you gave me when you pretended breaking up was an act of love.

I am not in my right mind to think you were the best thing that ever happened to me, while also being the reason I lost hope in myself. No, I wanted to keep fighting for you, but the fights with you were killing me. Now it's time to fight the urge to cry for you.

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