Twenty-nine drafts. Thirty really, if I don’t finish this.
I don’t account all of those to you but a large sum because for six months I was content with no need to write even when I started and now for almost four I haven’t found the words to finish.
I’m still fumbling over them.
I don’t remember what you sound like anymore, that’s a strange thing to get used to. Caught between trying to remember and then pushing memories of you strumming and singing (out of tune, I never told you that) at the edge of my bed.
New bedding, new room, new apartment.
I physically removed myself from places that you had the privilege to be let into but I can’t leave myself. The worst are the dreams of when it was good and in that brief moment of waking up and not having reality catch up yet I wonder where you are. And then your shadow follows me the rest of the day, dancing in songs and hiding in books.
I never realized how bad you were, we were. I fed into your every need, obliged your requests like nothing else mattered in the world. And now you’ve stained the future because I didn’t know any better and I can’t shake comparing. How dangerous is it that what I once thought was amazing and one-of-a-kind was just abuse verging on normality that I romanticized?
Half a year of thinking you were mine, half a year of you using me as yours.
Half a year of me not knowing better.
I wish I was a fast learner.