I stopped calling.


It hurt to hear your voice, but to not really hear you speak. That you never returned your calls. I keep placing all my money on you to go against the odds, but I guess I should learn, the odds are never in my favor. It’s not a fifty/fifty chance when you’re guaranteed to lose every time.  Things rile and surge inside me. Another crack in a facade. it’s ok.


I finally made a decision.

The whole “it’s not you it’s me” bs that people pass around. Some of it must be true. I know it’s me. I suppose it always has been. Now it’s highlighted. Glaring at me. Obvious and exposed. It’s harder to ignore then. The small irritating niggling things about people you don’t see until someone points them out. I see them all in me. Polished and shining. Blinding. Until you can see nothing else, the image burned into your eyes. Like an old broken monitor, an old outdated image burned into it’s screen.


Don’t worry.


I thought things were good. They played at being well. I was just a place holder and you were my chance to pretend things were different. You moved on, happier now, and I remain. How it always seems to be. That I remain. People walk on, move on, excel, fail. I’m still here. Right where I’ll always be. Stagnating. Which sounds filthy, to be frank. Like a dirty word your mother washed your mouth out for. I miss your mother. She was kind, and warm. Feels like a place that is cold and slate grey in my memory now. The place where you were.


I’ll be better.


I stay home now. I play at being normal. Still. Healthy even. Drowning and bobbing in the flood of my days. Too much to do, but no will to do it. In an effort to stop hurting myself. I stopped calling. I don’t think about the fun things we used to do. I just get by. I want to miss you less, so I think of you less. I reach out to you less. stay inside my head more.


It’ll be better this way.

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