Estelle Maskame

So, fuck him.

Fuck him for having me question my sanity.

This is not me. My mind doesn’t unravel like this. Never, ever, ever.

Maybe that’s why I have convinced myself cleaning the bathroom three times a day might help me feel better.

Well, no.

And it is agonizing, feeling it. Every time I sit down and focus on the hollowness inside of me and the echoes of a thousand memories, I lose my breath. My lungs constrict, my stomach twists; it is so tangible, so real. Pain. That’s what heartbreak is: insufferable, physical pain.

Whoever said crying is therapeutic is a liar. Crying hurts like a bitch.

We were supposed to have forever. We were supposed to want to have forever.

“I haven’t washed my hair in five days,” I admit.

“I’m not thinking about him tonight,”

We were going to be together forever. It was always going to be him.

I know you love me, Weston, but you don’t make me feel loved.