I wake up everyday and tell myself that today is the day I won’t write about you. I won’t let you help me create because all you know how to do is destroy.
I give myself four cups of coffee and seventeen crumbled pieces of paper before I cut myself open and bleed onto the page. Beauty. That’s all that’s ever been associated with you besides pain- beauty.
So I stare at the perfectly made up canvas with the three small coffee stains and smeared ink at your name. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my promise to myself, when I can’t, it feels an awful lot like you couldn’t keep them either.
So I let my pen fall and I tell myself that tomorrow- tomorrow I won’t write about you at all.