Shot For Me (please stop writing about her)

Pain.

So much that it leaves me lost for words.

(If these aren’t words, what are they?

These are pieces of the pain that follows me everywhere I go for as long as I am conscious. These are the remnants of a love that I wasn’t meant to hold on to, the remnants of a love that I wish I didn’t still want to die to bring back to life.)

The voice is still there.

I miss her.

I always tell him the same thing: “I miss her too, and that’s okay. But we have to let her go.”

It never hurts any less.

I am trying to think in better, more powerful terms.

Example:

I did not lose you, we were simply meant to collide and fall away. Could I have done things differently? Yes. If I could go back and fix all my mistakes, be more aware of you and your feelings and your needs and wants, would I? Of course. But, do I still wish you back to me? No. It’s hard as hell, but no.

I’m shaking, writing this.

The voice comes in the still moments.

When I’m surrounded by people and everything is calm, low conversations and good music, he sobs with no restraint from the glaring hole next to us where you should be; when I’m out shopping, even if I don’t see anything that reminds me of you, as I’m moving from store to store he whines, hearing your voice commenting on everything around us; when I’m at work, he yells and screams and rages in all the ways I want to do, ache intensifying every time something happens that we can’t tell you about.

Missing you is a ghost I have learned to live with but being by myself is still hard.

Not always, but enough to make a difference.

Everything I do when it’s just me manages to remind me of you and some times are harder to ignore than others.

When I’m listening to my music there are: songs I skip instantly because they remind me of you as soon as they start, songs I skip halfway through because something was said that made me either think of you or made me think of something that lead me to thinking of you, songs I let play and force myself not to cry to because they are beautiful songs and I know I shouldn’t let our ending sour them for me, and songs I cry to when I’m out walking in the middle of the night to get away from the need to call you or text you or drive or run to you.

When I’m reading I want to recommend books to you.

When I’m watching tv or movies I want to tell you about the crazy shit that people be doing and how it could never be me and I want you to go look the show up without telling me about it and then watch a bit of it and end up falling in love with it the same way I did.

When I’m playing games on my phone, I hear your voice from some conversation we were having saying “I forgot you have games on your phone like a damn child” and I want to delete every game I have and throw my phone in a river and jump in after it with my mouth wide open, taking a deep breath as soon as the water gets in my mouth so it’s over quicker.

When I’m eating I want to tell you about it, just to get your opinion on my “horrible” tastebuds because you’re one to fucking talk.

Some days are worse than others—

but that doesn’t mean that there are any easy days.