if we’re being truthful: your brown hairs are everywhere.
i have a collection of your eyelashes underneath
my bed and your dandruff coats my bookshelves
like takeout boxes. it took me months
to wash my sheets after you slept in them.
i only did when i threw up all over my comforter
and burned a cigarette hole in my mattress.
i guess i have this issue called “can’t let go of shit.”
i deleted all of your text messages but still
look at the screenshots in my photo album.
my therapist told me i have got to stop
checking up on your social media accounts.
she talked about this thing called “independence”
and said i have this thing called a “dependent
personality” and it made me want to
brush my teeth out with your tongue.
i tried. i tried really hard not to care that
your sister got a new apartment and
your mom planted new buds in your rose garden
and your girlfriend is as pretty as ever.
i cut all ties, stopped driving by her house at night,
went weeks without remembering your face,
but every hangover ends in relapse.
i stopped going to my therapist because
she would tell me it’s not healthy for you to
seep into my veins like this, pounding imprints
in my mind like bare feet slapping against concrete.
i have to let your memory die, but i don’t know
how to rid you except to write you out of me.
so i yell into my pillows and i run up on mountains
and i scream that i loved and i lost on rooftops.
and “i love you” says a whole hell of a lot more
about me than it will ever say about you, so i won’t
worry about what your scarred ego will think.
and i will use these wounds to carve
love letters in my skin. it takes great strength
to face your problems head on every single day.
so i guess if this is unhealthy, well, so be it.
— the sixth diary entry i kept locked up in the floorboards