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I am splayed out in front of you. I am all bare, blinking flesh and beat red limbs and matching moles on my inner thighs and you cant help but already hate the next man who gets to fall asleep here, with me. You can’t help but want to see the insides of his skull.
I want to sit across from you for days and take everything from you. But I never will. I will however, keep writing you into my life. You will forever take up entire chapters, and sometimes you’ll make it into the footnotes. Once in a while, the preface will be dedicated to you.
It gets better. You’re not alone. I promise that I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Sometimes life just hurts. It tramples over your sensitive skin with the weight of every elephant known to man. And then all those elephants start to jump up and down. At the same time.
He will talk about how he is in love, and how he needs to be better. How she makes him want to be better. And you are cheapened by the fact that you are not letting him be better. You are ruining his chance at happiness and you feel so dirty there is nothing you can do to wash the grime off yourself.
Darling, none of us are much more than questions and commas and dizzy vowels stuck on repeat. I can’t give you answers, but I can listen to your questions and etch them firmly into my palms.