It doesn't hurt anymore. (I'll be here when you come back.)

"You push people away like dreams that disappear."



You are number 3.5.

I want you to write me a letter.

Filled with everything you've ever wanted to say, even though you've already said so much. 

I want something to keep just in case you go away for a long time and forget where I live.

I want you to say everything you couldn't,
even if it hurts.

I hate this house.

I hate that they're treating it like one of the mass produced ones she grew up in.

I hate her marriage.

I hate how she let him into her life.

I hate that this might be me in 10 years.

I hate her dogs.

I hate that she gave away Bootsie.

I hate that she wanted children but didn't have them.

I hate that he didn't want them to begin with.

I hate his job.

I hate how this house smells.

I hate that this is the house that I would've wanted to spend my life in.

I hate him.

I hate that she is sad.

I hate that he's been such an asshole to her.

I hate that he took 8 years of her life.

I hate this house.


 

I can't spell to save my life.

We can go on and on about how lovely each of us is.
How wonderful, how pretty, how smart, how great,
how strong, how good, how worthwhile, how fantastic...





But I'm beginning to understand that words become only
words after being repeated over and over again.