I want to write something,
I want to write again.
But my words are always tainted
with the memories of you;
the memories of us.
Everything from colours to weathers,
flowers and places,
my mind seems to enjoy wandering back
to a memory – instead of writing
something that doesn’t end with,
“Why’d you have to do this to me?”
I want to remember how it feels like to not
have you in my mind, even just for a while.
Because I forgot how it feels like before
you came stumbling into my life.
My favourite band became our favourite
and I can’t even listen to them without
wondering if you ever thought of me –
wait, what am I thinking?
Of course, you wouldn’t,
why would you be?
I want to be able to write continuously,
without having to read back what was written
and realise it’s all about you again.
And again, and again.
Even in places that are impossible for you to be.
When were you ever near me?
I feel dirty and no, I want to feel clean.
I want these scars and wounds off of me.
They say that these things are what makes you
who you’ll be. If it’s tainted with you,
why should I be okay with this?
You broke me.
Now I don’t know how to fix it.
How to fix me.