I write letters to you daily.

its so hard not to just talk to you, i miss you so badly.

Tomorrow is the eighth and you know what that means.

today i found your sweatshirt in my laundry. plummet is not a strong enough word for what my stomach did.

it fell like a body and shattered like a vase.

I fucking hurt all of the time. everything has become a bruise.

I cant listen to some of my favorite songs because they remind me of you and become self destructive tendencies.

I want you back. I want you back so so badly.

Im tired of wanting to hurt myself. I am so tired of needles and knives and razors finding their ways into my hands.

I havent been taking my medication.

I cant remember without your concern writing itself across the backs of my hands.

i always told you that you would ruin me.

i knew that if you left that i would feel like someone had scraped out my organs and replaced them with stones (your name written across every single one of them).

some days i feel ok. not ok but not like i want to die.

each day is classified by how badly i want to hurt myself.

I stop myself from talking to you just like i’ll stop myself from sending this to you.

And im angry.

I’m so fucking angry that you proved my mother right.

and im so fucking angry you held my fear against me. I’m angry that you left me.

Im angry that you turned me into this weeping, dark, thin thing.

I’m angry that I kept two pictures of you because you cant cut off your own liimb without leaving some shredded flesh.

I love you.

Fuck off.