my

The problem is not him.


It’s you. It’s you hoping for him to call. It’s you listening to his favorite song. It’s you waiting for his message. It’s you writing love poems about him, about his eyes. It’s you walking alone in the city lights and wishing he were here holding your hand. It’s you missing his lips and hands. It’s you letting the sun remind about him. It’s all the things you do in order to get him back. It’s those sleepless nights that are filled with his smell and love that you miss so bad. It’s you saying “What happened, happened” today and “I miss him so much’‘ tomorrow.  It’s you never questioning about him making you cry, but always questioning about why doesn’t he call. It’s you waking up realizing that some pieces of you still sing about him. It’s you hanging out with boys just to forget him. It’s you crying on your birthday because of how fucking much you want him here.


It’s you. It’s all you. He is not a problem anymore, dear, you are.

—  please stop thinking about him, stop giving away your power to him, he’s not here. he won’t be here. he won’t.