I do it in my head, the math, the letters that turn into numbers after staring at the page for too long. I multiply my scars because I’m bitter, and I analyze the last time you looked into my eyes and held my face. I have to make sense of it. I am intent on deriving truths out of all the times you lied because I don’t know how to move on without my love being equivalent to some hazy afternoon where you so lovingly said the words, “I promise.”
Now all I have are bitter dreams where I kill you before you kill me. You fall to the floor and I hold you there, crying at the thought that I would rather have it be me. Maybe that’s why you did it, and maybe that’s why I didn’t.
I look at you, blood soaking through your chest and onto my pressed hands, I ask, “did you really love me?”
You don’t know how to answer it, or maybe you do, maybe you just cared enough not to say it. Because there was nothing you didn’t want from me, but there was not one thing you actually wanted to keep. I always wake up in tears, and I wonder what I truly miss. I am disappointed in myself. Why didn’t I leave you there to bleed out alone? Why couldn’t I just leave?