It’s been 6 days since you left me. Every day is something different. Either I’m like the roadkill that keeps collecting on speeding tires, or I forget who I am. You don’t look so happy yourself, either. But eventually, we’ll fall out of love with each other completely. The thought of that sends slightly panicking nudges to my spine, but then I also try to iterate to my soul, “that fucker will be out of your life.”
I’m still mad. You chose someone who wasn’t me. For whatever reason. It’s easier for me to think you were just too afraid to leave your comfortable life behind. But then, if it was so fucking comfortable, why did you come over so often?
I hate you. I love you. I’m all over the place. Like roadkill.