the worst
I thought the worst would be the speechlessness, the sick sadness that doubled me over like a punch in the stomach during that long-distance phone call. I thought the worst would be coming home, uneaten meals alone, picking up my things from your apartment, carrying boxes to my car with shaky hands. This would be easy if I wanted to ruin you, rip your heart apart like a bad movie, screw you over. This would be easy if I wanted to smash your band equipment and slash your tires.
But this is much worse because we’re supposed to be grown-ups. It’s worse because you’re the one who fucked it, up and I’m still aching like a lame teenager. It’s not film-noir sexy and desperate when I’m unshowered, acting helpless to a soundtrack of sad songs, and haven’t left bed since Wednesday.
