where i lay the past open, trace every wound to its beginning, and search for the exact moment something i would have given anything to keep had already died in my hands.
the autopsy
anyone who's ever known me when i'm in love knows how completely fucked up i can be. i have a habit of wanting love more than anything in the world and then having absolutely no idea what to do with it when it's mine.
the autopsy
girl, you can stop stalking me now. i am not secretly plotting my return, there is no reunion strategy sitting in a PowerPoint somewhere. any unfinished business you think exists between us is very much finished on my end. please keep him. put him on the family Christmas card. buy
the autopsy
i used to think i would know if it ever happened to me. i thought i was too intelligent to be manipulated, too independent to be controlled, too outspoken to be intimidated, and too self-respecting to stay with someone who hurt me. i thought if a man ever became
the autopsy
this flare-up of flashbacks, nightmares, and being overstimulated by everything is something i have learned to live through again and again this past year. i guess coming home to yourself does not always feel like peace at first, sometimes it feels like walking through every room you once had
the autopsy
i gave you chance after chance, piece after piece, until loving you became an act of self-erasure. i gave until i was exhausted. i gave until i barely recognized myself. i gave until you had almost taken the fucking life out of me. and now you stand at a
the autopsy
she looked at me and said, "i don't think you lost yourself. i think you have just been in pain for so long that you forgot what it felt like to be you. but that is different from being gone. you are still there. i can still
the autopsy
these past six months, i have learned not to demand brightness from myself while i am still stitching certain parts back together. i have become softer with myself, too. i no longer rush myself toward being OK, or insist that every loss must immediately become some beautiful lesson about growth.
the autopsy
i tried to become a good person. i tried to shrink myself into something your love could keep safe. but here, they turned my pain into a carnival. they paraded me through the streets like a monster they could not kill. and i kept bandaging the same places they had
the autopsy
my beloved, these days, while the brutality of each battle with life got imprinted on your eyes and lips, i desperately tried to grab all the most beautiful memories of my life with all my strength, before everything is washed away in the whirlwind of time. those were also the
the autopsy
one reason. that's all they need to cut me down, and they'll do it without blinking. me? i've got twenty thousand, twenty thousand, reasons to burn it all to the ground, and yet here i am, quietly sitting in that corner of the bar,
the autopsy
what we had for two years was not love. love does not require one person to keep surviving the other. you wanted me when things were easy, when i was soft, happy, available, and convenient. but the moment things became difficult, you left me to carry everything alone, almost like
the autopsy
somewhere right now, he's telling his new girlfriend what a terrible person i was, and she's sitting there smiling like she just won the lottery. two clowns. one circus. the truth is, he's recycling the same tired victim story because accountability was never something