Drink too much on a weekday. Listen to channel ORANGE and see how many hymns you can get through before you start crying. Read how long your heart persists stubborn. How long you keep up the brave face you’ve spent so long perfecting.
Break at “Bad Religion” every time.
Cry into a beaker and promise yourself it won’t happen again. Promise yourself this is the last night of self-hatred. Promise yourself tomorrow is a new day, a new beginning. You can’t keep swallowing nostalgia seeing it will turn into something good. You can’t retain fucking sadness and thinking it will birth happiness.
Delete their number. Delete the yarn of contents. Throw out the box of notes they sent you. You’ve held onto them for virtually seven years. Realize it’s time to let go. You were supposed to a very long time ago. Remember?
Read the screenshots of the deleted texts. Of track, you saved them. Of course, you retain some kind of proof that this wasn’t imagined. That this wasn’t some sick reverie you had. The reconciliation. The virtually. The again . strong>
Burn it. I signify, don’t ignite it. Fire freaks you out. Burn it in your intellect. Or, try to.
Sage the damn region. Feng shui everything. Get furniture they’ve never touched. Start to an estate sale and thumb through vintage photograph. Buy a few. Render these strangers a home.
You’re always doing that. Always committing strangers a place to stand. A place to crash. A place inside your nerve behavior before you should.
Call up a ghost from your past and hang out with their remembrance . strong> Convince yourself it’s better to be alone with what once was rather than what’s now.
Change your intellect. Perform an exorcism on every tone loitering on your skin.
Turn your laptop off. Put your telephone underneath a pillow and try to forget it’s there.
Try, try, try . strong>
That’s what this is. Trying. Trying to get over it. Trying to move on without looking back. Trying not to recite the same mistakes Orpheus made.
Let your mouth are familiar with another. Dance until the place closeds down. Sweat pooling at your every arc, keep going. Push your torso to the edge. When you can’t feel your paws, know it’s time to go home.
Go home. Laugh with friends and comprise a cigarette between your fingertips before chucking it in the nearest trash bin. It wasn’t even illuminate. That’s not you. Never has been.” Smoking kills ,” you say.
But so does this ache. So does this remembering.
Maybe you don’t forget as much as you accept.
Maybe it’s not even about this part. Maybe it’s about what happens next.
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