You once asked me about all the things I should say. Everything I wanted to say but wouldn’t. Because the phrases meant nothing or something or anything. I’ll say one thing now: I loved the you that wasn’t really you. My larynx crumbled under the shift of your tectonic tongue.
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I promised we were done. We were done. Except that I can’t get my skin back. You left a layer of ancient volcanic ash that wouldn’t scrape clean and can’t be excavated. So I keep dropping these postcards in the mailbox. Because it’s better than knowing who you are now.
In my post-break up state, this entry surprisingly sums up everything I feel. Strange.