The truth is, I can’t seem to get you out of my head. I feel like I’m writing with blades and my blood is the ink on paper to weak , too thin, to handle how I feel. I probably don’t have the vernacular to truly express what we were or how we left or how it is to live without you. All of the metaphors and the similes are still buried under the crushing truth: that I can’t get rid of this; I can’t rid of you.
— Excerpt from a book I’ll never write // n.b