I feel like it didn’t really happen, like it was just some dream.

The last time somebody did this to me I couldn’t get away from his smell, and couldn’t avoid hearing his name or seeing his face or having people ask about everything. I thought that this would be better. It is better in some ways, and it’s easier to block you out and to imagine that none of it even happened; but sometimes something makes it creep back in, and I don’t know how to deal with it because I can’t be sure for some reason that it even happened.

Do I really need witnesses to know I was in love, and had some new glimpse of comfort, of affection and reassurance?

That weekend was perfect, the best of all my weekends maybe; I just don’t understand what went wrong after that but somehow I feel like it’s my fault. I’m petrified that this was really the final straw. I hate you for moving me and making me trust in you and in us enough to let myself go and to let myself fall in love with you. I was fine. I was strong.

We could have ended when you left and everyone would have been whole, instead of me feeling so fucking empty and cold again while I’m sure you are feeling cleansed after a rebound and forgetting abut me quite comfortably.

You make me furious. I can’t help but be grateful too though, it doesn’t hurt all that bad right now, I can take it, and If I can stay not caring I know I’ll be OK, I just have to believe less easily next time.

It’ll never feel as intensely black he made it, and I’ll cling to that.