Give me something to write about.

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I haven’t slept well and our conversation just keeps rolling around in my head, like a pinball, bouncing off of the comments, unspoken words, and all the small moments filling the space.

The pictures. The bathtub. The ceiling fan and unmade beds, sheets in a rumple and there’s a heartbeat behind me, in my shoulder blade.

I keep thinking that now is the time to run. Now. I should have done it a long time ago. And I will. As soon as I find the glue remover.

You called me emotional and it’s true; I am a woman.

I’m not crying. I haven’t shed a tear in a very long while. But you always hear the emotions rise in my voice and you feel it in my energy.

You don’t want to love me, and I’m never going to be mad about it. That’s your own fault, and your own undoing. I don’t want you to love me either. I told you before and I meant it. I am not the kind of woman you come back from.

This is a deep ocean, and you can’t swim. It takes an extraordinary person to even try. There’s no sharks here. Nothing as common as a shark would survive. It’s dark and terrible, full of fables and lore, mermaids, pirates, mystical sea-creatures, and everything time forgot.

But for some reason, unbeknownst to me, I think I’ll love you until I’m old. So when you leave me, do it well. Like a man. Say it to my face and break my heart thoroughly. Act like you caught the moon, but you were too blind to see her beauty. Tell me you don’t recognize good things anymore, and you’re too cold to feel your fingertips.

I’ll still love you when I’m gone.

Maybe I’ll find another lover, a boy, someone with a stronger heart. I’ll just smile wistfully at the memory of your face. When he asks me why I’m quiet, and whispers that he loves me, I’ll say, “You don’t know any better.”

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