I get told I’m pretty so often
Every day by different people
And every time instead of being happy and processing the compliment, I wish with everything I am that you would’ve told me that sometimes
For that I’d have traded all the compliments I’ll ever receive

I wish more than anything in the world that you fought for me. I wish you looked at me in awe and aspiration, as a reason for you to be more because you cherished me like something for only More could suffice. Other people do. Other people try. But you wouldn’t fight. I wish you fought. I choke when I think of it. All of the happiest days of my life were with you. Driving our usual route. Being stopped at that traffic light that would drive you mad. Your face when I served you food you loved. Trudging through snow. Cupping my hands and wiping hundreds of beads of plump sweat off of your beautiful creamy back. Stroking your face, your forehead, your hair. Feeling warm whilst smiling into each other’s eyes, tight-lipped and silent as our friends filled the bar around us on your first birthday spent with me. Coming out of the shower to you gone, but replaced with post-it-notes and pastries on our bed. Smearing chocolate over each other’s faces in delirium. Being so, so excited to spend the rest of our lives and forever together.
I don’t know why you didn’t fight for it.
I fought so much that there wasn’t anything left of me by the end. I was an empty, terrified, furious husk of my former self.
I am no longer a husk. I am terrified though. Also furious.
Terrified of the reality that even the most truest, deepest, most ridiculous, purest, most obsessive and euphoric, most desperate perfect versions of love with another person, won’t necessarily last.
Furious, because you didn’t fight. You didn’t fight during, you didn’t fight when it ended, you didn’t fight when you realised it was a terrible mistake, and you aren’t fighting now.

I know I’ll be angry forever. Recently though, as my fury has been burning less vehemently, I’ve realised that the anger isn’t even the worst bit: the worst bit is the prospect that the burning can lessen and thus the hurt can lessen and thus the memories might not always be felt to their true intensity.

I’d rather cry and hurt and be so angry than to not want to do these things at all. I want to feel this awful, because it reminds me of how impossibly happy I was. Impossibly. I want to know forever. I never want to get through the sadness. I never want these scars to heal. I don’t want the memory of you and me and us to fade; I don’t want the truest most concentrated aspect of my identity to fade.
I’m so thankful to have known love with you, and I don’t think I’ll know it the same ever again.

At first when they met on my dry cheeks, they buckled into each other; each tear felt a rude shock as another disrupted its course.
Now, though, they’ve culminated into a single furious stream, they’re flow constant and frantic. No longer resembling single tears, they culminate into heavy milky baubles at the bottom of my chin, before departing into oblivion. A mass exodus.

Working working working
Building growing sowing
Because nothing upsets me more than words and wants and convictions not acted upon.

I could never give anyone else
More of myself than I’d given to you
But still
That wasn’t
Enough

Why do you feel so entitled
To everything you want
After doing everything literally that disentitles you
Then doing not even one, single, proactive thing
To make someone you did what you did to, feel anything other than raw contempt towards you?

You haven’t done anything. Not for me. Not towards yourself (becoming someone you should feel, that your supposed soulmate, deserves).

It makes my blood boil. The baseless entitlement.