i know you well enough to know you never loved me :i don't do too well on my own

The now crumpled note flew from my fingers and pathetically gave up flight only a few metres from departure. Not far enough to dissolve the ‘its over’ s and ‘I wont miss you’ s but just past the space that blurs them. A photograph acting as the wrist that rotates and twists the knife further into my aching body. I know it been said so many times before but who could I go to now. One letter burnt away everything I felt safe with.
And the room became different glowing lights and fizzy shapes as the water messed up the rays before they hit my eyes. I guess my hair wasn’t the right shade for him. My bones weren’t aligned in quite the same way as hers. I didn’t have the figure of one of those girls he wanted me to be.
Every colour I could make out stopped me from wiping my own tears; because I knew any clear picture would make memories stronger. When I couldn’t hide under the unnaturally comforting nothingness, my bed covers created with blackness anymore, I’d have to catch sight of his face across a filling room. Id drop my eyes to his hands, the ones that would move to touch me, arms that ‘wouldn’t let go’.
And I knew if he ever came back he’d be under my fingertips because I couldn’t hate him until I stopped hating myself. He made sure that wouldn’t happen. He had power over me like an artist with a stash of coloured paint. He wanted me angry- the artist painted me red. Hand that artist green- make me jealous. An artist can rip up their work, shred it to tiny pieces and throw it away from them. Never have to worry about it again.
I watched him cry I had tried to laugh with him, and now it came to this. Shame I threw away the wrong words, but it flashed past me. Like spotting someone on a rollercoaster. You know they are there but the sight is too mixed up to be able to point them out. Too brand new and coded to save " I love you".
I wasn’t falling- that was before this, I feel for him- I had hit the floor and a crowd had gathered in the street. An ambulance on its way. It’s a shame the world is only awake from the mid-morning coffee and it takes visible bleeding of an unconscious body to have an ambulance called. It takes a dead women to relies her husband is a murderer. It takes something to be too late for the rescue teams. A flooded eye, to a flooded bath, to a flooded city. We can only measure time, we can not make alterations, and we have to hope the car crash has pretty flames. Everyone will do to your funeral but they won’t all be at your party only weeks before.
And that pen he picked up will be used to write down a phone number. He won’t need to discard it to detach his head from the scars.


i only posted this because i haven't posted anything in a while and idk i feel i should. i dont usualy post anything that is fiction... but i guess this is based on truth tbh becuase it is just exagerated truth. And it is based on me and a boy. a boy i know a boy i have been involved with so its not about anyone famous or anything. and the title is very significant but i'm not gonna explain it on here
plus it would take too long
yeah
xo