“when i would hear your name i
immediately felt pangs of
happiness but now
the mere thought of you makes
my chest tighten
and my throat choke
and my eyes tear up
and i can’t seem to picture how it felt
before you came into my life.
my every thought is about you.”
— fuck you
“i don’t miss you but
i want you to
miss me.
i want you to come back and
ask me on a date so i
can say no and watch
your face fall.
i want you to
feel as empty as i
did when you left.
i don’t miss you but
i want to see
you one last time so
i can spit at your
feet and tell you
to have a nice
i don’t miss you and
i hate that i’m
lying to myself
about it.”
— i don’t miss you but
“i used to think about death a lot
and how easy it would be to drive my
car off the road and into
a tree or
the approximate number of sleeping
pills it would take for me
to go to bed
i would value every cigarette i
smoked because each
one took 11 minutes off my
life and i
was grateful.
i used to stop eating for
days at a time
because the emptiness in
my stomach made me feel
whole despite the
“if i can handle this then
i can handle
being dead,”
i thought.
i haven’t thought about death
in a long time but
the idea is rushing back
into my mind
and overwhelming every sane
thought i have.
sometimes i wonder if
these thoughts ever went away in
the first place or
if they were just
— bad thoughts

i wish i could focus on myself
or on something new
i want to invest all my time in
a new project
i want to embroider song lyrics onto
pillow cases and not stop until my
fingers bleed and i
run out of thread.
i want to go on pinterest and
attempt every diy project that comes up
when i type
“projects that help you avoid
thinking about your ex”
and excel at every single one.
i want to drop them off at your doorstep
i want your front porch to be covered in
broken fabric hearts and watercolor paintings of
my favorite places and
photos of the overpass at sunrise
scribbled over with sharpie so only
one car is visible
(because i know how you like
that kind of stuff).
i want your mailbox to be stuffed
with knit scarves
and beanies
and clay pots
and dream catchers
and embroidered pillowcases.
i don’t want to stop until you
come out of your house
to tell me to stop
so i can hear your voice one last time
and so you can see how fucking
upset i am.
my fingers are numb and i
can’t stop thinking about all
the things i could have said
or done to make you stay.

i haven’t heard from you in days

— pillowcases