Remember November of 2011. We met without warning or mercy. You met me, the girl dying of crippling self doubt.

Falling for you was the deadliest of all the suicide leaps I have made. I knew it was ridiculous to think of you as The One. Too fast, too real. But I did.

It was a quiet night when you told me you loved me. Before that we were walking an unfamiliar street and stopped to watch the sky turn from bright orange to a vivid, almost tinted purple. It was a perfect day. The kind of perfect that makes you want to sing a sappy love song.

A relationship later, you told me you’ve had enough. You don’t love me anymore, it just happened. That you have zero control over it. We lost the competition and we must be okay with it.

It was frightening how easy that was for you, ending a relationship with ‘it just happened’. I thought we were okay. But no, I will never be fucking enough.

And should I see you once more, I will remain silent, distant, even because what you were will never happen again. You let me think there’s more to save when you had one foot out the door. When you were never really engaged. When your mind was already fixed that this – us, we weren’t the type to last long term. I believed you the first time you said I wouldn’t bail, and the second time, the third, and all the times you did (even those when you didn’t mean them) because you said you’re different. You said you weren’t wired to hurt, you want me to be happy. Well look closely because what I am now is the absolute opposite of what you said you wouldn’t do to me.

I trusted you because I thought my heart was safe with you. Now all I have are sad bastard records, a bottle of cheap vodka, and an empty rib cage.