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1. the first month after you left I didn’t really believe it, just assumed we’d be friends again like we always did after fighting

2. the second month i saw you in cars and music, in cities and towns and couldn’t stop everything reminding me of you

3. the third month i left town and practiced being alone

4. the fourth month i texted you because i realized it was real, and asked for some time to move on, as if you hadn’t

5. the fifth month i met another boy and was ok, i think it was the first time i was happy in three years

6. the sixth month things—I—started to get bad again, I texted you, maybe because I thought you were happiness, I cried in the school bathroom and shook through history class when I realized you were past me in the race

7. the seventh month I still mentioned you to my friends, i thought the reason i was unhappy was because i had no one

8. the eighth month i found out you weren’t alone and that you never had been, you’d already finished the race and were starting a new one

9. the ninth month i talked to you for the last time, i stopped going out and began to hate everyone around me, i drowned myself in self deprecation

10. the tenth month i choked on guilt till i passed out on the floor, I didn’t wake up till much later

11. the eleventh month i cracked my skull into a mirror and dragged the broken pieces across my skin—i still have scars

12. the twelfth month i stopped eating hoping someone would notice, even myself, it had been over a year and there was something wrong with me

13. the thirteenth month i started making enemies, i ripped out my hair and spat out insults, maybe if i tried someone could hate me more then i hate myself

14. the fourteenth month i woke up and cried because i lost myself and didn’t know where to look

15. the fifteenth month i put cream on my cracked skin and brushed out my hair, i apologized to me friends and looked in the mirror. I realized we were never in a race, and you aren’t a destination

16. the sixteenth month i stopped scrambling to find all the pieces of me, and realized i never would. i thanked myself for the pieces i had and smiled at the outline

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- the year i lost myself
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I remember when I was going to fuck some boy. to try to forget your hands. and he ended up being your neighbor

I remember when I bumped into some boy at a thrift shop. and thought he was the first cute boy I’ve met since you. and he ended up being your roommate

I remember when I went on a walk. to try to get out the hardened tar in my skull that’s your smile. and i ended up seeing your name carved into the cement

I remember when I opened your file to get rid of the last traces of you and the first song that played was that disgusting song spewing apologies and twisted words of love

No one parks their car where you used to leave yours. i used to pretend that meant something. I used to pretend that it all meant something.

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- ugly coincidences that meant nothing to either of us

I lost myself and tried to pretend I found it in a boy
I put a bandaid on every cut he made
But that wasn’t enough to stop my heart from bleeding out
They say some people are born to be sad
But I don’t want to jump off the Brooklyn bridge at 37
I’ll wipe his name off the chalkboard
And wonder how life ever got this bad
And I’ll smoke cigarettes with his roommate
And tell my friends I never feel like enough
I fell in love with a lame boy two years ago
He knew I was moody but he never bothered to ask why
even though that was never what I really needed
And I’ve realized I really don’t care
Not in the least
I haven’t quite found myself
But I know it was never in him
Some people are meant to change us
Some people are just here to teach a lesson
I wish him the best
But it’s mostly because I just don’t care anymore

“‘Do you consider yourself a writer?’ my friend once asked me. I thought about it for a bit. Do I really have the right to call myself one? I’ve put a few words on paper here and there. I’d like to think one day I will be. I’d like to think I look at the world with the perspective of a writer, but do I qualify? I answered ‘Yes, I suppose I do, but I think the truth is, we are all writers. We all have words bubbling up from inside of us. We all see the world in a different but still very poetic way. I think some people choose to share it. Write it down. But we are all writing stories, in one way or another’”